"
"I don't want you to go and shake her," said Meldon, "or pour cold
water over her, or anything of that sort. Just take your scythe over
close to where she is, and as soon as ever I give the signal, you begin
to scrape the blade of it with your stone and whistle a tune at the
same time as loud as you can."
"'The Wearing of the Green,' or the like?"
"Not 'The Wearing of the Green.' It's a melancholy, soothing sort of
tune which would probably only make her sleep sounder. Whistle a good
lively jig."
"I will," said Callaghan.
Meldon walked away. When he reached the house he stood on the top step
of the flight which leads to the hall door and waved his pocket
handkerchief. Callaghan picked up his scythe cautiously, and went on
tip-toe across to Miss King's hammock. He did not wish to disturb her
prematurely. Then, his hone in one hand and his scythe in the other,
he stood and watched Meldon, The handkerchief waved again, and Meldon
started walking briskly across the lawn. The hone rasped harshly
against the scythe blade, and "The Irish Washerwoman" rang out shrilly.
Miss King woke with a start. Callaghan turned away from her, and still
whistling vigorously, began to mow.
Pages:
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111