tom had discontinued work on the lean-to for some untold reason, and just after lunch he and hepburn had gone over to bert’s to get the horse and go for the cots.

the rest of us broke up into convenient groups and tennised or walked, but by the middle of the afternoon a drowsiness came over us, superinduced by our sleepless night, and with the exception of ethel and mrs. benedict, who were helping prepare dinner, we all slept, some in hammocks, one on the ornate sofa and the rest in the three bedrooms.

and then, just before dinner, tom and hepburn not having come, we all went out to look for them.

it ought not to have taken them long to buy two cot beds and bring them up, and they had been gone four hours at least.

we walked upwards of a mile toward town, and at last came to a rock, from the top of which we could command a view of the rest of the road to egerton, but there was no sign of bert’s wagon.

“well,” said ethel, “we’d better be starting back, for dinner ought to be ready soon.”

and so we sauntered back, expecting every minute to be overtaken by the cot bringers.

we arrived at the house and all entered by the south door, attracted thereto by the recumbent figures of our truants. each one was reclining gracefully upon a cot reading, and smoking excellent cigars.

“here, here,” said tom, when he saw us. “this will never do. dinner’s ready this ten minutes, and hepburn and i are starving.”

as soon as hepburn had seen us he had risen from his couch, but tom continued to lie there blocking the doorway.

“what about that lean-to,” said i.

tom rose and folded up his cot as an arab is supposed to fold his tent. then he set it up against the side of the house and said oracularly:

“the lean-to is indefinitely postponed. we know more than we did this morning.”

“well, but where have you been? we walked half way to town and didn’t see you,” said ethel.

“exploring the country. haven’t we, talcott.”

“it’s a beautiful country,” said talcott, laughing.

all through dinner those two seemed to have a secret, and as near as we could make out, minerva was in it, because every time she came into the room and looked at tom she smothered chuckles.

after dinner tom said, “mrs. vernon, what do you say to our taking our coffee in the summer house?”

“in the summer house,” said ethel, “why, there isn’t any summer house.”

“well, whatever you call it, then. minerva, you bring it to us there.”

minerva broke out into childlike laughter.

“all right, sir, i will.”

then she looked at her mistress and said, “kin i do it, ma’am.”

ethel shook her head at tom and said,

“you’re a bad boy. all this is subversive of discipline.” but she told minerva to do as mr. warden wished, and, tom leading the way, we all went out of the house feeling that we were on the verge of a surprise.

out the front door and north of the house we went and then around to the lesser orchard at the back of it and there, between two apple trees, stood a “summer house,” over the dilapidated door of which was a sign reading “tramp’s rest.”

we who had bathed that morning recognized in it the bath house in which we had dressed.

“how did you get that here?” said several of us at once.

“if you don’t mind having it on your land,” said hepburn, “i’d like to make you a present of it. i took a fancy to it this morning and this afternoon tom and i drove over there on our way from town and brought it back.”

“yes, but who said you could take it?” said benedict.

“oh, i bought it this morning. mr. sibthorp and i found out the owner and he was willing to sell it for a song.”

“but how did you get it here on that wagon?”

“oh, we didn’t. we had this—er—bert’s horses—but an irishman of the name of casey loaned us his hay wagon and he felt insulted when i offered to pay him for the use of it. he really became violently abusive, don’t you know, and used highly colored language, but we could see that he meant well. really i thought him something of a character. didn’t you think him a character, mr. sibthorp?”

“he certainly was,” said sibthorp. “he had no opinion at all of bert’s horses. said he had an—ould—ould—”

“ould scut,” i suggested.

“that’s it. said he had an ould scut of a horse that would walk right away from bert’s pair, and that any time we wanted to take the young ladies out for a ride to come and take him right out of the stall, whether he was there or not. his language was ornamented with picturesque oaths that wouldn’t sound well here, but they were awfully funny.”

“i guess he said nothing that he wouldn’t say before anyone,” said ethel.

sibthorp gave her a whimsical look. “excuse me,” said he, “but i guess that when you’ve heard him talk he has repressed his vocabulary.”

“why,” said ethel, “you know he came with berries the morning after you came.”

“oh,” said ellery, “he had sworn off that morning. you ought to have heard him to-day.”

“perfectly willing to let it go at imagining,” said ethel.

and then minerva came out with the lilting walk that was hers when she was happy. she bore a tray and set it down on a rustic table that i remembered to have seen in the furniture store at egerton the week before.

“here’s to the ‘tramp’s rest,’” said tom when we had all been provided with coffee. “i boney a cot in this house to-night. you fellows can sleep in rooms if you want. for me the stars through the cracks.”