Kit swept the tamarisk aside, and waved at him furiously. The little
man soothed him with mocking hand, and crept on.
Kit dared not shout; he could not catch the other. What could he do?
Watch and pray, with sickening heart.
"Little lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name."
Beautiful as it was, the boy could not listen. His soul was in his
eyes, and his eyes on Knapp.
The little man was now behind the reader, and stalking him on hands
and knees.
What on earth was he up to?
A horrible thought wrenched the boy's heart.
Would Knapp stab the other as he lay?
If so, could he stand by and see that little baboon-thing with the
hairy bosom and leg-of-mutton fists murder in cold blood a noble
gentleman to whom he owed his life?
Then he remembered thankfully that Knapp had no weapons.
"Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!"
Knapp had stopped now, and seemed bending over the other. Then he
deliberately thrust his hand into the face beneath him.
The Gentleman sat up, snatching for his sword.
"Tweak his conk!" popped a Cockney voice--"the conk of a lord!" And he
was up and away, and down the slope with the merriest spurt of
laughter.
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