The clock buzzed, struck twelve.
Mr. Fennel came and bent over the little boy. "How have you got on this morning?" He was peering at the Latin text-book that Wakefield had opened.
"As well as could be expected, by myself, thank you." He spoke with gentle dignity, just touched by reproach.
Mr. Fennel leaned still closer over the page. "Um-m, let's see. Etsi in his locis—maturae sunt hiemes—"
"Mr. Fennel," interrupted Wakefield.
"Yes, Wake." He turned his shaggy beard, on which a straw was pendent, toward the boy.
"Renny wondered if you would let me out promptly at twelve to-day. You see, yesterday I was late for dinner, and it upset Grandmother, and at her age—"
"Certainly, certainly. I'll let you off. Ah, that was too bad, upsetting dear Mrs. Whiteoak. It must not happen again. We must be prompt, Wakefield. Both you and I. Run along then, and I'll get back to my potatoes." Hurriedly he assigned the tasks for to-morrow.
"I wonder," said Wakefield, "if Tom" (Mr. Fennel's son), "when he's got the pony and cart out this afternoon, would drop my books at the house for me. You see, I'll need both dictionaries and the atlas. They're pretty heavy, and as I am late already I'll need to run every bit of the way."
He emerged into the noontide brightness, light as air, the transportation of his books arranged for, his brain untired by encounters with Caesar or Oliver Cromwell, and his body refreshed by two sponge cakes and two bottles of soft drink, ready for fresh pleasurable exertion.
He returned the way he had come, only pausing once to let an importunate sow, deeply dissatisfied with the yard where she was imprisoned, into the road. She trotted beside him for a short distance, pattering along gaily, and when they parted, where an open garden gate
