“Tha’—­tha’ hasn’t got a crooked back?” he said hoarsely.

“No!” shouted Colin.

“Tha’—­tha’ hasn’t got crooked legs?” quavered Ben more hoarsely yet.

It was too much.  The strength which Colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way.  Never yet had he been accused of crooked legs—­even in whispers—­and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by Ben Weatherstaff’s voice was more than Rajah flesh and blood could endure.  His anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength.

“Come here!” he shouted to Dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself.  “Come here!  Come here!  This minute!”

Dickon was by his side in a second.  Mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale.

“He can do it!  He can do it!  He can do it!  He can!” she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could.

There was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on to the ground, Dickon held Colin’s arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass.  Colin was standing upright—­upright—­as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall—­his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning.

“Look at me!” he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff.  “Just look at me—­you!  Just look at me!”

“He’s as straight as I am!” cried Dickon.  “He’s as straight as any lad i’ Yorkshire!”

What Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond measure.  He choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together.

“Eh!” he burst forth, “th’ lies folk tells!  Tha’rt as thin as a lath an’ as white as a wraith, but there’s not a knob on thee.  Tha’lt make a mon yet.  God bless thee!”

Dickon held Colin’s arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter.  He stood straighter and straighter and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the face.

“I’m your master,” he said, “when my father is away.  And you are to obey me.  This is my garden.  Don’t dare to say a word about it!  You get down from that ladder and go out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will meet you and bring you here.  I want to talk to you.  We did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret.  Be quick!”

Ben Weatherstaff’s crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears.  It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight Colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back.

“Eh! lad,” he almost whispered.  “Eh! my lad!” And then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, “Yes, sir!  Yes, sir!” and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder.

CHAPTER XXII