The broken bow

Front matter

Class

Book.

jmL.

Book I 1909

“What is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good—was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear.

We are the masters of the days that were.

We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so.”

W. E. Henley.

CHAPTER I i

1 ITTLE Hesper’s heart was thumping in her j ears when her mother parted from her at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door of Olveston House, “Select Academy for Young Ladies,” in Brunswick Square.

There were twelve steps, shallow, spotlessly white, and, apparently, untrodden that morning.

They stretched before her, alarming in their prim parallelism, and she glanced down anxiously to see if her rather faltering feet had sullied their virgin fairness.

Luckily it was a dry day. She took courage and mounted to the top.

And even as Hesper’s heart thumped and expanded in delicious terror and excitement, so did her mother’s heart contract with a spasm of pain as the beloved little figure limped up the steps and Hesper’s white, little face, with broad forehead and enormous eyes, was turned over her shoulder in a brave attempt to smile as she kissed her hand in farewell.

Would the other girls be kind to the child? Would any of them realize her fragility, her gentle¬ ness, her anxiety to please?

Just then a pony-trap drew up and a little girl jumped out of it and ran up the steps, calling imperiously to the groom, “Half-past four sharp, Kilby—not a second later, mind.”

There was nothing fragile about this child. Straight and square-shouldered, with a mane of light brown hair streaming to her waist, she was a head taller than Hesper, who stood on the top step lost in admiring wonder. Hesper knew per¬ fectly well who she was. Every one in Erampton Massey knew Squire Collett’s granddaughter by sight. Big and handsome like all the Colletts, with wide, wine-brown eyes set far apart on either side of the arrogant, inquiring little nose; a fair skin that freckled easily, a delightful radiant smile that produced dimples and changed the proud expres¬ sion to one of endearing friendliness.

The elastic of Hesper’s hat was worn under her chin. Susan’s was under her hair. This, at the very outset, gave Susan an advantage in Hesper’s eyes. She noticed it at once, and, having already fallen in love with Susan’s hair, was completely subjugated when Susan smiled at her, asking, “Have you rung, or d’you suppose we go straight in?”

“I’m not sure if we ought to be at this door at all. I see other girls going down that path at the side.”

“Oh, well, let's ring as we're here,” Susan said, and gave the bell a vigorous pull.

The door was opened and Hesper turned to blow one last kiss to her mother before it closed again and swallowed them up.

ii

“Bless her! Bless her! Bless her! Make them good to her and let her be happy—my precious little lady.”

So, portly Mrs. Stowe, as, with tears in her eyes, she hurried from the somewhat shabby gentility of Brunswick Square towards the High Street.

A big woman, a heavy woman, yet a woman who moved easily and swiftly. Plainly dressed in good clothes, that were somehow so markedly prosperous and middle-aged that they made her look as though she were dressed for a character part.

When she reached High Street the clocks were striking nine, and she stood on the edge of the pavement to look at her own house. The shutters were just coming down from the large plate-glass window of “The Surprise.” Even in a street of beautiful old houses it was noticeable. Even with¬ out the sign-board of three huge exclamation marks in gilt on a black ground. Timbered, sharply gabled, with its three stories above the ground floor each extending beyond the other.

Mrs. Stowe crossed over and went in,

hi

The thrills and adventures of Hesper’s first morning at Olveston House culminated in the discovery that she and Susan were the only girls who, that day, were to remain for the midday dinner.

It was a silent meal. The Miss Foldacres and Miss Pope, a handsome, sulky-looking young woman who assisted them, were all rather fussed and tired. Susan, though still looking quite un¬ abashed and observant, refrained from comment of any kind; and Hesper was too excited to eat, far less talk.

Miss Pope usually “took playground,” but as there were only two girls, and both of them new, she saw that they put on their outdoor shoes and sought her own bed and a novel she had been reading in the train.

The playground, once a square garden, was now entirely covered with gravel, save for a thick hedge of lilacs at the side. At the far end there were two swings and two benches.

“Awful rot making us change our shoes every time we go out for a minute/' Susan said discon¬ tentedly. “I never do at home. Anyway, I won’t wear a hat." And she flung hers back into the dressing-room.

Hesper watched her, rather shocked but still admiring. “What would you like to do?" she asked politely.

“I should like to get out of this and go some¬ where, but I suppose I daren’t, not the first day. Let’s go and swing. Can you stand on the swing? Does it make you giddy?"

Hesper wasn’t sure, and as she limped across the playground Susan inwardly decided that she’d better not.

“You sit on that bench a minute—it’s jolly in the sun—and I’ll see how high I can send this old swing."

She jumped up on the seat and stood, tall and straight, grasping the ropes, working herself to and fro, faster and faster, till it seemed to Hesper she had attained to an incredible speed. Her long hair streamed in the wind of her passing, her eyes shone, her cheeks took on a deeper rose, and the admiration so plainly visible on Hesper’s upturned face spurred her to further efforts till the old posts seemed to sway, and the iron rings in the cross-bar creaked in protest.

Hesper grew frightened. “Oh, please don’t go so high," she said; “it might break or something."

“It does sound rather groggy,” Susan answered cheerfully, and slowed down.

“Don’t you hate it here?” she asked, coming to sit beside Hesper.

“Oh, no. Why should I? They’re all so kind.”

“But it’s so beastly dull; and I hate lessons —don’t you?”

“Oh, no,” Hesper exclaimed in astonishment. “I love them. I’ve only been allowed to do such a little, and I want to know things dreadfully —don’t you?”

“Oh, no!” Susan mimicked her. “I don’t, not a bit. What’s the good?”

“It’s so interesting—for one thing.”

“But that’s just what it isn’t. How can you say it was interesting this morning?”

“Well, the exam, papers were silly, they were so easy; but I expect they thought . . . because we’d neither of us been to school before. ... At least, I haven’t.”

“I don’t know about ‘easy’—except the arith¬ metic; that was potty.”

“It was absurd,” said Hesper. “I did all that three years ago.”

“Gracious! How old are you?”

“I’m eleven.”

“Why, Fm eleven. I thought you were about seven.”

Hesper looked depressed. “I suppose,” phe paid humbly, “it's because I’m so small.”

“Never mind. I expect you’re awfully clever, though,” Susan said, “if you’re so keen on learn¬ ing.”

“My brother is—awfully clever. He’s taught me a lot.”

“Taught you! Your brother!” Susan repeated in astonishment. “I’d like to see one of my brothers trying to teach me. I’d soon learn them something—except,” she added, “to bat. David does coach me sometimes.”

“My brother is much older than me. He was the cleverest boy in Frampton Massey. Mr. Payne told mother so.” ♦

“Who’s Mr. Payne?”

“He’s head master at the Grammar School. He said, *. . . I expect great things of your son, Mrs. Stowe, great things.’ That’s what he said.”

“What else can your brother do besides be clever?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, what can he ’do?”

“I don’t understand,” Hesper said patiently. “Do what?”

“Well, what’s his batting average?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he in his school eleven?”

“He’s not at school. He’s at Cambridge. He’s eight years older than me.”

“Well, people play cricket at Cambridge. Has he got his blue?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You’d know fast enough if he’d got it. Was he in the footer fifteen at the Grammar School?”

“He played football . . . sometimes,” Hesper said cautiously.

“Can he ride?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can he row?”

“Oh, yes; he takes mother and me on the river. It’s lovely.”

“Is he tall?”

“Ye-e-s . . . rather ...”

“Is he handsome?”

“It depends what you call handsome. I love his face.”

“Well, we’re all supposed to be handsome,” Susan said, “though I don’t see it’s done us any good, and, I dare say, we shall all be hideous by the time we’re grown up.”

“I’m sure,” Hesper said earnestly, “that you’ll always be lovely. You are the loveliest person I’ve ever seen. . . . Very, very lovely, like the princess in a fairy-tale.”

“You are a queer little kid,” Susan exclaimed, dimpling with pleasure. “You remind me some¬ how of Hamish and grandpapa.”

“I’d like to look like your grandpapa,” Hesper said eagerly, “but I don’t see how it’s possible.”

“It’s not in looks you’re like him—not a bit— but the funny way you say things . . . sort of reminds me . . . ”

“And who is Hamish?”

“Hamish is my Cairn terrier; and when he cocks his ears and watches my face he’s like you—at least, you’re like him. I feel I ought to give you a biscuit.”

Hesper sighed. “There’s the bell and some of the other girls coming. We’ll have to go in. Thank you so much for talking to me.”

“You are a funny little thing,” Susan said. “But I like you. We’ll be friends.” And she put her hand under Hesper’s arm to help her across the playground.

IV

In the dressing-room the three Miss Beebys were playing football with Susan’s hat, which they had found on the floor.

Perceiving this, Susan rushed to their pegs, tore away their hats, kicked the lot down the steps into the playground, and was going after them when the eldest Miss Beeby caught her by the hair and hung on to it hard.

“Beast!” Susan cried, and let out a good hard kick that caught her on the knee. She screamed and let go of Susan’s hair, while her sisters flung themselves upon Susan with a shower of slaps and hair-tweakings.

Hesper stood trembling in a corner, trying to brush the dust from Susan’s hat.

“Stop it!” Susan gasped. “Stop it, else you’ll be sorry. I’ll biff you in a minute. Stop it, I say!”

And sure enough Susan did biff the second Miss Beeby just under the jaw, and she ceased to slap Susan.

Meanwhile other girls had arrived, filling the doorway with shouts and gesticulations. The eldest Miss Beeby sat on the floor, sobbing, as she rolled down her stocking to observe the damage. The second Miss Beeby held her face and rocked to and fro, too indignant and astonished to cry. Susan, scarlet and dishevelled, held the wrists of the third Beeby sister while they did a sort of war-dance in the middle of the dressing-room.

Miss Foldacre, Miss Lucy and Miss Pope—Miss Pope, who ought to have been there to “keep the dressing-room,” was last—all rushed upon the scene, and the noise diminished.

“What does this mean?” Miss Foldacre asked, in a tragic voice. “Young ladies fighting! Young ladies in my school! Miss Collett, can you explain this conduct ?”

Susan let go of Annie Beeby’s wrists. “We’ve had a bit of a scrap,” she mumbled, “and we all lost our tempers.”

“She kicked our hats into the playground,” Annie Beeby panted.

“Yes, she did; we saw her,” voices corroborated from the door.

“But they were kicking ...” Hesper began, when Susan cut her short with, “Shut up, you aren’t in this at all.”

“She turned on us like a tiger,” Violet Beeby cried. “Look at my knee.”

There was a large bruise.

“And she hit me in the face; dreadful she hit me,” Clara Beeby took up the tale.

“But why?” asked the bewildered Miss Foldacre.

Nobody answered.

“Well, it was all very disgraceful,” Miss Lucy said briskly, “but we can’t waste any more time over it now. Get back to the schoolroom, all of you, as quickly as possible.”

Going down the passage, Susan whispered to Violet Beeby, “I’m sorry about your knee, but even the boys never pull my hair. I’ve got such a tender head.”

v

“Well, well/' Miss Lucy said when all the girls had gone home. “I suppose we’re lucky to have two new girls in the summer terms, even if one of them is rather quarrelsome. After all, she’ll only be here one term.”

“I wish now that the other had waited till the autumn,” Miss Sophia said. “I can’t feel that Miss Collett would like it, if she knew, having her niece at the same school with a confectioner’s daughter. ...”

“You can’t choose the girls to please Miss Collett, Sophia. Why, you know very well they’re none of them ‘county,’ and never will be. And if it wasn’t that there’s no High School or girls’ depart¬ ment in the Grammar School, we shouldn’t have any children at all. I’m glad enough to get Hesper Stowe. A nice, well-spoken, gentle little thing she seems to me, and it’s sad for her, being lame. Extremely pretty manners she has. I’ve always heard that Mrs. Stowe has brought her up like any little lady.”

“I dare say, I dare say,” Miss Sophia allowed, “but the fact remains there is the shop—that restaurant. So odd to call it ‘The Surprise/ as if it was a public-house. It is licensed too, which seems so very . . . And I’ve heard—I hope it isn’t true—that she tastes the wines and things herself before she buys them . . . like any man.”

“And what if she does?” Miss Lucy demanded stoutly. “If she sells wine she ought to know whether it’s good or bad. And you know the quantities of people that dine at The Surprise’ in summer, so as to go on the river afterwards. Even such grand people motoring from miles and miles away, drinking the best champagne like water. It is a surprise to find a place run like that in a little country town.”

“Well, thank goodness, she doesn’t live over it now, that’s one thing. If she had, I don’t think I could ever have consented to take her little girl. As it is, I am dubious. It seems a lowering of the tone of the school, and I’m not at all sure . . .”

“Now don’t be ridiculous, Sophia, all sorts of grand people have shops now, and I’m sure I don’t blame them if they can make any money at it, for money’s hard enough to come by any other way. We’re in the twentieth century, Sophia, the ninth year of it, and it’s no use thinking things are the same as they were in the nineteenth, for they’re not.”

VI

Hesper had been very lonely since they moved to The Nook, in Wolseley Road. There was always so much to look at in the High Street. Even in winter there were market days, and in summer it was gay indeed. When increase of business drove Mrs. Stowe’s family to the top floor and the attics, there was still always a window-seat where a deeply interested little girl could watch motors drive up and deposit guests who, in summer, went through to the back to have tea in the garden. Then would Hesper also hurry through to the back and from the window of her own room track the party to a table under the trees. On warm days, when all the windows were open, scraps of conversation would float up to her (this was what her mother objected to), and she would tell herself long stories about the people. If they were young and attrac¬ tive, they were straightway woven into the tales in the Red Fairy Book.

She would have loved to lie out in her long chair in the pretty garden sloping to the river, and to watch the gay visitors having tea; but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Customers would certainly stare at her. They might even speak to her, and inquire what was the matter, and Hesper hated to be asked about her lameness.

But all day long there was something to interest one at “The Surprise,” and sometimes kindly folk, looking up, would notice the little watching face so high above the busy street, and wave to her, and she would gleefully wave in return, feeling warmed and befriended by their notice.

There was nothing to watch at The Nook. Even the garden, though very tidy, was uninteresting, with its square patch of lawn, red-brick walls, and neatly trimmed laurels. It was a geraniumcalceolaria-petunia-lobelia-marguerite sort of gar¬ den. And in front of the dining-room window there grew a monkey tree which looked so sinister and grasping that Hesper was quite afraid of it.

VII

The doctor was passing “The Surprise,” and looked in to see Mrs. Stowe in her office.

Young, keen, and progressive, he was interested in Hesper, who thought him like a fairy prince, because he was so kind and good-looking.

“Well, how’s the scheme answering? How is Hesper getting on at school?”

“She seems happy enough, but so far as the education goes, I don’t believe she’ll learn anything at all.”

“Good!” he said heartily. “Couldn’t be better. That’s just exactly what I hoped. Hesper’s all mind and spirit. She’s like a little flame that has been fanned till it consumes all the fuel it’s got over it. Does she play with the other children? Has she made any friends?”

“She’s made one. At least, she’s crazy about one girl there—you know Hesper’s way—utterly taken up with anyone that interests her. Fm a bit worried about it.”

“Worried! Why?”

“Because I know it can’t come to much, and when it ends, as it will end, Hesper’ll suffer. It’s so easy to hurt her, unfortunately. She’s so thinskinned.”

“You’re very pessimistic, Mrs. Stowe. Aren’t you rather making mountains out of molehills? Who is the child?”

“Little Susan Collett, from Aylberne Manor.”

“Why, what on earth is she doing at that school?”

“I can’t think; but there she is, and somehow or other she and Hesper have struck up one of those tiresome friendships that seems somehow to cut them off from all the other girls. I can’t explain it. You know what a real child Hesper is, and how she longed for other children, and now she’s there and got them, she doesn’t seem to be aware of any other girls, only this Susan Collett. I’m quite concerned about it, for, of course, I know perfectly well the Collett child will never be allowed to keep Hesper as a friend afterwards, whatever they may do now—and she feels things so.”

Mrs. Stowe’s large lined face was turned towards the doctor, and for the hundredth time in their acquaintance he wondered how such a shrewd, practical woman came to be the mother of this fragile, nervous child, who seemed to have her being in an intense emotional and intellectual life, a world away from everything that was ordinary or common or rough. How had she managed, this stout, common-sensical woman, to keep her little daughter so entirely unspotted from the middle-class, hearty, business community in which she spent her own laborious days?

A pity she had managed it, the doctor thought.

“I’ve seen that Collett child from time to time, and if you’d asked me I’d have said she was the last little girl in the world to attract or be attracted by Hesper. She’s a wild little devil, born naughty, always in mischief; but I expect she was lonely too. Parents in India, brothers all at school, a not particularly sympathetic aunt, and her grand¬ father buried deep in Archaeological Records. Mind, I don’t believe there’s the least harm in the child, but she’s just as beef and pudding as Hesper is ethereal: a capital friend for her. You leave them alone. What Hesper wants more than any¬ thing else is a little wholesome neglect and mental hardening, and I should say the Collett child’s likely to give her that. You’ve wrapped her in cotton-wool from the day she was born.”

And yet, he reflected, as he went on his rounds, there must be a curiously strong streak of imagina¬ tion somewhere in Mrs. Stowe herself. The child’s name, for instance. Hesper—the evening star;

because, when she was born, Emma Stowe was forty-eight years old and her only son nearly nine.

Then look what she’d done with the business since Samuel Stowe, decent, unenterprising little confectioner, had died ten years ago. The woman had taste. She had an eye for colour and form and grouping as well as for good catering. To be sure she dropped an “h” occasionally, and, when she was eager or excited, betrayed by her accent that she had been born well within the sound of Bow Bells.

The doctor was fond of her and admired her. She was so capable and intelligent; jolly too, and sensible about everything except those children of hers. They were her religion. She had set them up like an altar in her heart, in a sort of holy place, and spent herself to keep it fair and seemly.

He shook his head.

No good, he thought, comes of trying to bring up children to be too refined for their surroundings. There was that boy at Cambridge. Well, well, poor Emma Stowe would probably find out the mistake she was making before so very long.

CHAPTER II i

S USAN and her grandfather were having tea together in the library at Aylberne. She liked having tea alone with him. There were always more and better cakes in the library than at schoolroom tea. She wondered why: for grand¬ papa never ate anything but one piece of thin, dry toast.

He was so different from Aunt Myrtle. He never said, “That’s enough, Susan; you seem to have overlooked the bread-and-butter.” Grandpapa, if he noticed at all, would say, “Have you tried the ones with the pink icing, Susan? They look more interesting than those yellow scones.”

Grandpapa was a dear.

“And you’re happy at this little school?” he asked, in his kind voice. “You like your school¬ fellows?”

“I like one of them most awfully. The others are all right, but I’m not very keen on them. Grandpapa, need I go that silly walk every day between twelve and one? I do hate it so.”

“But if it’s a rule, Susan?”

She munched steadily for a minute. You mustn’t answer grandpapa with your mouth full—“I’m sure if you wrote and said you didn’t like me to, they wouldn’t mind.”

“But what would you do instead? You couldn’t be left all by yourself. And fresh air and exercise are considered so necessary.”

Mr. Collett spoke diffidently. He wasn’t par¬ ticularly fond of either himself.

“But I shouldn’t be by myself, Grandpapa; that’s just it. I’d stay with my little friend. Think of it, Grandpapa! Two and two through the park to the river and back by Mercer Road. Always the same sort of walk, eight of us, counting Popey with her long nose, walking—walking—not to anything or to do anything, but just walking. If I must have that sort of exercise, can’t I walk home in the evening instead? It’s only three miles.”

“I’m afraid that would never do, Susan. Aunt Myrtle wouldn’t like that at all—and I shouldn’t like it myself. But you haven’t told me what you would do between twelve and one if you didn’t go for a walk with the others.”

“I’d play in the cat-run and talk to Hesper. She’s lame, that’s why she can’t go for walks; so she lies out there in a long chair, and I could sit on the end of it and we could talk and talk. I’d love that, Grandpapa. I never see her enough, only in snippets and scraps, and odds and ends of scribbles and whispers, and we’ve got such a lot to tell one another, and I don’t see how we’re ever to manage it. Can’t I stay with her morn¬ ings?”

“I see your point, my child; I see your point. But you’re not lame, thank God, and there’s really no reason why you shouldn’t walk with the others, so I’m afraid I mustn’t interfere with the regular routine of the school. It wouldn’t be fair. I’m sorry, but . . .”

“ Then what’s to be done? How am I ever to talk to Hester? Talk enough? Listen, Grand¬ papa, may I ask her here one half-holiday? Next Wednesday’s the nearest. Will you let me have her next Wednesday? Let me bring her home to luncheon with me in the bucket . . . and I’m

sure we could send her back in the evening after tea, couldn’t we? That would be one long, lovely afternoon. Oh, Grandpapa, will you?”

Susan abandoned her important post behind the teapot and flung herself upon her grandfather, clasping him round the neck and squeezing her face against his in an agony of supplication.

a Why not? Why not?” he gasped, from beneath her strangle-hold. “I think that’s an excellent plan. . . . Sit up, Susan dear, you’re rather heavy.”

“You are a darling,” she cried ecstatically. “ You’ve made me so happy—but. . . you’ll have to write a note, you know.”

“ Certainly. To whom do I write—to Miss Foldacre?”

“No. I think it would be best to write to her mother. Mrs. Stowe’s her name, and the address is The Nook, Wolseley Road.”

“Ah! One of those dreadful new villas, I expect.”

“Never mind the villa just now, Grandpapa,” Susan said hurriedly. “ It’s not coming to tea. Will you write the note soon?”

“ Directly we’ve finished tea.”

“You’ll say it nicely, you’ll explain how much I want it? You think they’ll let her come?”

“Unless she has some other engagement, I see no reason why her mother shouldn’t let her come. Tell me more about her. Did you say her name was Hester?”

“ Hes -per, Grandpapa, not ‘ ter.’ Mind you spell it right. She’s perfectly sweet. Very little, with short funny hair and a whispery voice, and . . .

Oh, I don’t know how to say it. She’s different somehow, and I do love her most awfully.”

“Are you in the same class?”

“ I really don’t know. I don’t understand their classes. We do some things at the same time, but she’s far cleverer than any of us; and, it’s awfully funny, she enjoys lessons, she really does.”

“I suppose,” Mr. Collett said thoughtfully, “ that is rather unusual.”

“ Have you finished now, Grandpapa? Will you write the note? And will you seal it with your red sealing-wax?—and may I squash the seal down on it? ”

ii

They drove along white roads between tall, ragged hedges exquisite in their early summer green. They turned in at great gates with pillars crowned by carved stone eagles holding the Collett coat of arms, and along an avenue of elm trees, to the friendly, beautiful old manor-house.

They arrived just in time for luncheon with grandpapa, and sat, one on each side of him, at the head of a long polished refectory table, where generations of Colletts had broken bread. Such a high table it was that Gosslin, the old butler, brought a fat cushion to raise Hesper.

Hungry Susan, who always wanted a second helping, said very little. The squire, as usual, dreamed through his meal. Hesper picked at her food like a fastidious wren and looked, and looked, and looked.

It seemed a long luncheon to Hesper, but at last the squire finished his coffee and Susan asked, “ Can we come with you, Grandpapa, just to let Hesper see the library before you settle for the afternoon? Then we needn't bother you again, for we're going to have tea in the schoolroom— unless you'd like her to come and say good-bye. Would you, Grandpapa? "

Of course he would like it, and he held out a courteous aiding hand as Hesper limped across the hall.

Trustfully she thrust hers into it: such a hot, fluttering little hand.

“ We’ve got the book you wrote about the

Abbey," she said. “My governess used to read it to me, and then we went and found the

bits we’d read about, and it was . . . thrill¬ ing.”

He strolled with Hesper round the great golden room—golden in the mellow light reflected from rows upon rows of books bound in yellow calf— taking down one here and another there to show her pictures, till Susan got rather bored and said firmly, in Aunt Myrtle's very tones, “We mustn't tire Grandpapa, Hesper. He always has a rest

after luncheon. Come on out and I'll show you

the Nuns' Walk."

And Hesper came on out, hurriedly, and sadly afraid she had been tiresome and trespassing;

the one pang in an otherwise entirely happy day.

They first went to the stables to fetch two fat foxhound puppies that Miss Collett was walking for the Hunt, and then straight to the Nuns’ Walk, a curious avenue of old yew trees, whose topmost branches, interlacing, formed a continuous arch. About a hundred yards long and some four wide, it led down an incline from a terrace in the wild garden to a stretch of grass bordered by a sunk fence, and beyond that by a big field. Hamish rushed off after an imaginary rabbit, and the two tubby little foxhound puppies lolloped after him a long way behind. Hamish disapproved of the puppies and gave them a nip when he was sure no one was looking, but all the same the puppies admired and adored Hamish, and couldn’t keep away from him.