The Tramp picked the small feather from his beard--apparently a water-
wagtail's--and appeared to reflect a moment. He held the soft feather
tenderly between a thumb and finger that were thick as a walking-stick
and stained with roadside mud and yellow with flower-pollen too.
"Hiding, is he?" He held up the feather as if to see which way it
fluttered in the wind. "Hiding?" he repeated, with a distinct
broadening of the smile that was already big enough to cover half the
lawn. It shone out of him almost like rays of light, of sunshine, of
fire. "Aha! That's his way, maybe, just a little way he has--of
playing with you."
"You know him, then! You know who it is?" two eager voices asked
instantly. "Tell us at once. You're leader now!" The children, in
their excitement, almost burrowed into him; Uncle Felix drew a deep
breath and stared. His whole body listened.
And slowly the Tramp turned round his shaggy head and gazed into their
faces, each in turn. He answered in his leisurely, laborious way as
though each word were a bank-note that he dealt out carefully, fixing
attention upon its enormous value. There was certainly a tremor in his
rumbling voice.
Pages:
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326