slept. In his dreams the air was full of yells and hoots, and the beating of tin pans.
He was awakened by the pain in the back of his neck. He had been dreaming something about the Indians. Oh, yes, they had been going to hang him from a tree in the orchard. Jammery had just placed the rope about his neck. Mr. Ramsey had been there in his surplice, reading the burial service, and a mob of Mistwell fellows were making a frightful row. He felt dazed. Then, suddenly, he remembered everything.
No one would expect him to keep such a promise. He had hardly known what he was saying. He made up his mind that he would go straight to Mr. Jerrold and talk it over with him. And, if he met Grace, he would speak frankly to her, as she had spoken to Mr. Ramsey. He pictured himself putting the matter before her plainly, almost brutally, yet withal throwing himself upon her mercy, making her feel that she above all others, could save him from the disaster.
He got his hat and went out by the front door. The road was deserted except for a speckled hen who was taking a dust bath with tempestuous energy, just outside the gate. She ceased for a moment as he passed and gazed up at him with a hard yellow eye. She lay on her side, every feather on end, and one scaly leg stiffly extended in the dust. Fearing some passing motor car might kill her, Derek pushed her gently with his foot and sent her, dishevelled and angry, through the gateway.
As he passed over the bridge he noticed that the stream had gone almost dry. Out of the shiny ooze of the pool grotesque spotted lilies seemed to stare up at him with little yellow eyes like the hen's. The sloping field beyond the stream was a shimmering sea of oats, their bluish stalks bending and whispering under a faint hot breeze.
