Bill changed commands for missiles.
Abiram, entering into the thing with rare spirit,
caught, worried, and killed each clod of earth hurled
at him, then bounded expectant forward for the next
sacrifice that would be thrown for his delight in
this entrancing game.
“Very well,” spoke Bill between his teeth.
“Very well. You jolly well come, my boy.
Wait till you get near enough for me to catch you,
that’s all.”
Beneath this understanding they moved forward across
the lawn and down the road; Abiram sufficiently in
the rear to harass rats that might be going about
their business, without himself being in the zone of
his master’s strength.
Heaving a sigh burthened with fond memory as he passed
the wall of Herons’ Holt where it gave upon
the secret meeting-place in the shrubbery, Bill skirted
the grounds; for the second time in his life passed
through the gate and up the drive.
Well he knew his adored’s window. From
the shrubbery she had pointed it him. Now with
a bang of the heart he observed that the bottom sash
stood open so that night breezes, mingling freely with
the perfumes of her apartment, unhindered could bear
in to her his tremulous love-signals.
He set a low whistle upon the air. It was not
louder, he felt, than the agitated banging of his
heart that succeeded it.
Again he whistled, and once again. There was
a rustling from within.
“Margaret!” he softly called. “Margaret!”
She appeared. The blessed damosel leaned out.
About her yearning face the long dark hair abundantly
fell; her pretty bed-gown, unbuttoned low, gave him
glimpse of snowy bosom, beautifully rounded.
“Oh, Bill!” she cried, stretching her
arms.
Then, glancing downwards at her person, she stepped
back swiftly. Reappearing, the soft round of
her twin breasts was not to view.
She had buttoned up her night-dress.
“Oh, Bill!”
“Oh, Margaret!”
“Wow!” spoke Abiram in nerve-shattering
welcome. “Wow!”
The blessed damosel fled. Bill plunged a kick.
Abiram took the skirt of it; waddled away across the
lawn, his waving stern expressing pleasure at having
at once shown his politeness by bidding a lady good
evening, and at being, like true gentleman, well able
to take a hint.
Bill put upon the breeze:
“It’s all right. He’s gone.”
No answer. Shuddering with terror lest that hideous
wow! had disturbed the house the blessed damosel
lay trembling abed, the coverings pressed about her
straining ears.
“He’s gone,” Bill strained again,
his larynx torn with the rasp of whispers that must
penetrate like shouts and yet speed soft-shod.
“He’s gone!”
Margaret put a white leg to the ground—listened;
drew forth its companion—listened; glimpsed
her white legs; shuddered at such immodesty with a
man so close; veiled them to their toes with her bed-gown;
listened; stepped again to the window.
