The wanderer smiled. "That's why," he said, holding up a warning
finger. "It's because I do nothing. 'ush!" he whispered. The steps
came nearer, and he lowered his voice so that the end of the sentence
was not audible.
"'ide me," he said in a whisper. And he waved his arms imploringly,
like the branches of some wind-hunted tree.
There was a tarpaulin near the rubbish-heap, and some sacking used for
keeping the vegetables warm at night. "That'll do," he said, pointing.
"Quick!--Good-bye!" In a moment he was beneath the spread black
covering, the children were sitting on its edges, quietly eating more
bread and jam, and looking as innocent as stars. Uncle Felix poked the
fire busily, a grave and anxious look upon his face.
The steps came nearer, paused, came on again then finally stopped
outside the gate. The flowing road that bore them ceased running past
in its accustomed way. The evening stopped still too. The silence
could be heard. The setting sun looked on. Upon the crumbling wall the
orange flowers shook their little warning banners.
And there came a tapping on the wooden gate.
No one moved.
The tapping was repeated.
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