“I was without in the scullery,” said a high-pitched voice, “and I after giving him his tea. ‘Let you sit quiet there till I have a minute to put a decent appearance on you,’ says I. ‘’Tis not in them ould rags you’d be having the genthry see you,’ I says. With that I wint back, an’ the kitchen was as bare as the palm of me hand. I’ve called him till me throat’s cracking——”
“Is that you, Timsy?” whispered Norah. The dancing eyes of the culprit were sufficient answer.
“Blessed Hour!” said the voice of Mrs. Moroney, torn between relief and wrath. Her good-natured face hung in the doorway, presently followed by her ample form. “Is it you, then, Timsy Moroney, disgracing me and annoying the gentleman! Why would you have him on your knee, sir, and he the ragamuffin of the world? I’d not have you troubled with him.”
“He’s not troubling me at all, Mrs. Moroney,” Jim assured her. “He’s an awfully friendly little chap. Does it matter if he has cakes?”
The question savoured of shutting the stable-door after the stealing of the steed. Timsy ate his cake hurriedly, lest disaster await him in the answer.
“There’s nothing he doesn’t eat,” said his mother resignedly. “But I’d not let him annoy you, sir.”
“There was no cake in the kitchen!” said Timsy, fixing reproachful eyes on his parent. “How would I have me tea, an’ no cake?”
“Cock you up with cake!” returned Mrs. Moroney, spiritedly. “Well able to go without it you are, for once in a while.” She relented before her son’s appealing gaze. “Come away, then, and let Bridget wash you: sure, she’s screaming all over the place after you.”
Timsy hesitated, regarding Jim with affection.
“Can I come back some time?” he demanded.
“I’m destroyed with washin’,” he complained. “’Tis only at dinner-time she had me all soaped. An’ I _hate_ shoes . . .” The voice of his lamentations died away as his mother swept him from the room.
“Nice kid,” said Jim, getting up. “Let’s go out and reconnoitre.”
The shadows were lengthening across the strip of tree-fringed grass leading to the gate. Near the house, the garden was a wilderness of colour and fragrance. Roses and sweet-peas, stocks and asters, nasturtiums and clematis, in a bewildering tangle, jostled each other in the untidy beds and on the old stone walls. Here and there was a mouldering summer-house, its entrance almost blocked with hanging creepers, while in shady nooks in the winding walks were seats with an appearance of old age that suggested prudence in sitting down.