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As she went she glanced back over a shoulder uneasily. Close to the door she paused. Miss Royle was not yet gone, for there was a faint rustling in the next room. And Gwendolyn could hear the quick shoo-ish, shoo-ish, shoo-ish of her whispering, like the low purl of Johnnie Blake's trout-stream. Presently, silence. Gwendolyn went in.
Royle took me to the village to get some brass to take home. The shop was a little hut with an earthen floor, a pair of scales, and one shelf crowded with brass things, made, not for the European market, but for the daily use of the people, such as drinking-vessels lota is the pretty name and big brass plates out of which they eat their rice and dhalbat.
Edward Lyttelton got 23; total 163. Mr. Lang got five wickets for 35, Mr. Ridley, Mr. Buckland, and Mr. Foord Kelcey divided the other four. In the second Oxford innings Mr. Sharpe got six wickets for 66, and the whole score was but 137, in which Mr. Pulman's 30 was very useful; Mr. Royle, Mr. Game, and Mr. Webbe got 21, 22, and 21, and Mr. Grey Tylecote, not out, contributed an invaluable 12.
Royle coming back, and the natives carrying someone someone who didn't laugh any more. The odd thing was I didn't seem to mind at all what happened to kind Mrs. Royle. It was Boggley, and only Boggley, that mattered to me. Of course nothing did happen to anyone. It isn't when one expects and dreads it that tragedy comes. Tragedy comes quietly, swiftly.
"This is the dear child's birthday, and I wish her to have the afternoon free." "A-a-ah! Then why don't you take her out with you? You like the automobile nice enough," this sneeringly. Miss Royle tossed her head. "I thought perhaps you'd be using the car," she answered, with fine sarcasm. Jane began to argue, throwing out both hands: "How was I to know to-day was her birthday?
She decided to ask him to go with her old and stooped though he was. Perhaps she would also take the pretty nurse-maid at the corner. And those who were left behind Miss Royle and Thomas and Jane would all be sorry when she was gone. But let them fret! Let them weep, and wish her back! She That moment she caught sight of the photographs on the writing-desk. She stood still to look at them.
Why had Miss Royle, sly reptile that she was, scuttled away without so much as a good-by? "Oh, dear!" sighed Gwendolyn; "just as soon as one trouble's finished, another one starts!" "We must get on her track!" declared the Policeman, patroling to and fro anxiously. "And let's hurry," urged the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "It's coming night in the City. And all these lights'll be needed soon."
Ridley was alarming to the nervous batsman. He fielded his own bowling beautifully. Mr. Lang was a slow round-arm bowler with a very high delivery, and a valuable twist from either side. Mr. Buckland was afterwards better known as a bowler; Mr. Royle could also deliver a dangerous ball; the fast bowler was Mr. Foord Kelcey, but he, again, was lame, through an accident to his foot.
Men have been scouring the country for fowls, but when we went to look at the result this morning we found about a dozen miserable chickens, almost featherless, standing dejectedly in corners, and Mrs. Royle wailed, "We can't kill these: it would be a sheer slaughter of the innocents!"
According to Miss Royle and Jane, these dread animals who existed in all colors, and in nearly all climes made it their special office to eat up little girls who disobeyed. She knew where several of the beasts were harbored in cages at the Zoo, from where they sallied at the summons of outraged nurses and governesses. But as to their being Down-Town !
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