E-text prepared by Brendan Lane, Charlie Kirschner, and the Prooject
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
ISABEL ECCLESTONE MACKAY
Author of "The House of Windows," etc.
The road runs back and the road runs on,
But the air has a scent of clover.
And another day brings another dawn,
When we're up the hill and over.
"From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles,
From Wombleton to Wimbleton is fifteen miles,
From Wombleton to Wimbleton,
From Wimbleton to Wombleton,
From Wombleton—to Wimbleton—is fif—teen miles!"
The cheery singing ended abruptly with the collapse of the singer upon aparticularly inviting slope of grass. He was very dusty. He was veryhot. The way from Wimbleton to Wombleton seemed suddenly extraordinarilylong and tiresome. The slope was green and cool. Just below it slept acool, green pool, deep, delicious—a swimming pool such as dreamsare made of.
If there were no one about—but there was some one about. Further downthe slope, and stretched at full length upon it, lay a small boy. Nearthe small boy lay a packet of school books.
The wayfarer's lips relaxed in an appreciative smile.
"Little boy," he called, somewhat hoarsely on account of the dust in histhroat, "little boy, can you tell me how far it is from here toWimbleton?"
Apparently the little boy was deaf.
The questioner raised his voice, "or if you can oblige me with the exactdistance to Wombleton," he went on earnestly, "that will do quiteas well."
No answer, civil or otherwise, from the youth by the pool. Only aconvulsive wiggle intended to cover the undefended position of theschool books.
The traveller's smile broadened but he made no further effort towardsociability. Neither did he go away. To the dismayed eyes, watchingthrough the cover of some long grass, he was clearly a person devoid ofall fine feeling. Or perhaps he had never been taught not to stay wherehe wasn't wanted. Mebby he didn't even know that he wasn't wanted.
In order to remove all doubt as to the latter point, the small boy'shead shot up suddenly out of the covering grass.
"What d'ye want?" he asked forbiddingly.
"Little boy," said the stranger, "I thank you. I want for nothing."
The head collapsed, but quickly came up again.
"Ain't yeh goin' anywhere?" asked a despairing voice.
"I was going, little boy, but I have stopped."
This was so true that the small boy sat up and scowled.
"I judge," went on the other, "that I am now midway between Arden,otherwise, Wimbleton, and Arcady, sometime known as Wombleton. Thequestion is, which way and how? A simple sum in arithmetic will—littleboy, do not frown like that! The wind may change. Smile nicely, and I'lltell you something."
Urged by necessity, the badgered one attempted to look pleasant.
"That's better! Now, my cheerful child, what I really want to know is'how many miles to Babylon?'"
A reluctant grin showed that