On the
greensward before her stood the paterfamilias of the family automobile,
and he was making a trumpet with his hands in order to repeat the name
of Anthony with greater effect. A short lady in grey emerged from among
the encircling megaliths, and one or two other feminine personalities
produced effects of movement rather than of individuality as they
flitted among the stones. "Well," said the lady in grey, with that
rising intonation of humorous conclusion which is so distinctively
American, "those Druids have GOT him."
"He's hiding," said the automobilist, in a voice that promised
chastisement to a hidden hearer. "That's what he is doing. He ought not
to play tricks like this. A great boy who is almost six."
"If you are looking for a small, resolute boy of six," said Sir
Richmond, addressing himself to the lady on the rock rather than to the
angry parent below, "he's perfectly safe and happy. The Druids haven't
got him. Indeed, they've failed altogether to get him. 'Stonehenge,' he
says, 'is no good.' So he's gone back to clean the lamps of your car."
"Aa-oo. So THAT'S it!" said Papa. "Winnie, go and tell Price he's
gone back to the car.... They oughtn't to have let him out of the
enclosure...."
The excitement about Master Anthony collapsed.
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