"May I trobble you with one of these?" he inquired, holding a basket toward Jim, who had lifted Garth into his arms.
"I'm sorry," Jim said, "but I'm carrying my son just now."
"Certainly; ex-cuse me—again," muttered the Count. Joan took the flute, and Stysalski strode off with her and Elspeth. Elspeth looked back over her shoulder and blew a kiss to Garth.
"I like you to say 'my son,'" said Garth, as Jim fell behind again. "It makes me feel so sort of honorable."
"Honorable!" laughed Jim. "Well, aren't you my son? Why shouldn't I? Should you like to be his? Hi! don't hug me to death! Forgive me, I prithee!" They rubbed each other's cheeks together, and Jim settled Garth more firmly against his shoulder.
The hill where Stysalski had staged his picnic was between Quimpaug and the sea, the very point which cut off the village from a view of the open ocean and the lighthouse from a sight of the town. Silver Shoal Light could be very plainly seen, with the Ailouros moored before it and even the tiny, distant figure of Caleb moving toward the landing.
