He liked this most of all, and laughed for a long time--much longer, he explained afterwards, than a broken-hearted Lord Byron would have done.

Horace Campbell did not exactly guess, but said that he hoped that the stranger was a gentleman burglar--a kind of Raffles and Robin Hood in one--who robbed only the wicked rich and helped the poor. "As," he added, "I want to."

"Oh, do you?" said the big man. "Well, don't rob me, anyway. Wait till I have led the Snail to a place of safety."

And lastly Gregory guessed. "I think," he said, "you are a vagabond."

"Gregory!" cried Janet; "you mustn't say things like that," while the stranger laughed again.

"Why not?" Gregory inquired. "I mean like the Wandering Jew Mr. Crawley told us about. He called him the prince of vagabonds."

"Well," said the stranger, "Gregory's right. I am a vagabond. But I'm something else too, and I'll tell you. I'm an artist. My name is Hamish MacAngus. I live in the Snail most of the summer, and in London in the winter. I cover pieces of cardboard and canvas with paint more or less like trees, and cows, and sheep, and skies, and people who have more pennies than brains buy them from me; and then I take the pennies, and change them for the nice sensible things of life, such as bacon, and tobacco, and oats. My horse's name is Pencil. I came here from Banbury, and I am making slowly for Cropthorne. Now tell me all about yourselves. Tell me in the order of age."

The children looked at each other, and laughed.

"You first," said Mr. MacAngus, again to Janet; "you're the eldest, I can see."

"My name," said Janet, "is Janet Avory. I live in Chiswick. Our caravan is the Slowcoach. We are going to Stratford-on-Avon. Our horse is called Moses. Our--"

"Oh, Janet," said Hester, "you're not leaving anything for us to tell!"

"Very well," said Janet, "that's all."

"My name," said Mary, "is Mary Rotheram. I am the daughter of a doctor at Chiswick. My brother and I are the Avories' guests. I am fourteen.

Father has one of your pictures."

"Good judge!" Mr. MacAngus said.

"Now, Macbeth," he said, pointing to Robert.

"My name isn't Macbeth," said Robert.

"No," said the artist, "but that's how I think of you. Why? Can anyone tell me?"

"I can," said Hester. "Because he woke you up--'Macbeth hath murdered sleep.'"

"Splendid!" said Mr. MacAngus. "As a reward you shall tell your story before Macbeth does."

"I am nine," said Hester. "My name is Hester. I adore Shakespeare. I am Janet's sister."

"Good!" said Mr. MacAngus. "We will read Shakespeare together this afternoon. From the way you walk I can see that this is blister day. We will all take it easy and be happy, and you shall cure your lameness.

Now, Mac."

"I am thirteen," said Robert. "I am the geographer of the party. I am sorry for murdering your sleep, but glad, too, because you're so jolly."

"Now you," said Mr. MacAngus to Jack Rotheram.

"I am not an Avory," said Jack. "I am Mary's brother. I am twelve. I am going to Osborne next year."

"Very sensible of you," said Mr. MacAngus. "And you, sir," he added to Horace Campbell, "the burglar's friend."

"My name is Horace Campbell," he replied. "I am the son of the Vicar of Chiswick. I am nine. I am also the Keeper of the Tin-opener."

"Oh, yes," said Jack, "I forgot that. I am the Preserver of Enough Oil in the Beatrice Stove."

"I am proud to meet such important personages," said Mr. MacAngus. "And now, lastly, you,"--he said to Gregory,--"the little nipper, the tiny tot of the party."

Gregory was furious. He scowled at the artist like thunder.

"Go on," said Mr. MacAngus; "don't mind me. I always tease little important boys."

"My name is Gregory Bruce Avory," said Gregory, "and I am seven. I am going to be an aviator. I have to ask the farmers if we may camp in their fields, and I keep the corkscrew. Please tell me," he added, "why you call your horse Pencil?"

"Because he draws me," said Mr. MacAngus.

"And now," he continued, "let us do the most interesting thing in the world to people like ourselves: let us examine each other's caravans."

After they had finished visiting each other, and Mr. MacAngus had given them, speaking as an old campaigner, some very useful if simple hints, such as always pitching the tent with its back to the wind; and keeping inside a supply of dry wood to light the fires with; and tying fern on Moses's head, against the flies; and carrying cabbage leaves in their own hats, against the heat; and walking with long staves instead of short walking sticks--after this he made them all sit round their fire, and sketched them, and the picture hangs at this very moment in Mrs.

Avory's bedroom at "The Gables."

After lunch, which he shared with them, adding to the pot some very fragrant mixed herbs from a little packet, they lay on the gra.s.s round him, and he read to them from Shakespeare--first from "Macbeth," which was very dreadful, but fine, and then from "Midsummer Night's Dream"

and the "Winter's Tale."

After supper he took them outside the Hollow, and they lay on their backs and studied the stars, about which he knew everything that can be known, and nothing whatever that Gregory wanted to know.

And they went to bed early, to be ready for the long journey on the morrow--with their feet covered with Mr. Lenox's ointment--declaring it was one of the most delightful days they had ever spent.

CHAPTER 12

STRATFORD-ON-AVON

The next morning was dull, but dry, and they were ready early, for there were sixteen miles to be done before Stratford-on-Avon was reached. They were, however, easy miles, twelve of them being on the flat beside the Stour.

Mr. MacAngus had decided to stay on in those parts a little longer before making for Cropthorne, and therefore, after helping with the inspanning, as he called packing up, he said good-bye, but gave them a list of the places where it was worth while asking for him. They were sorry to lose him, but the immediate future was too exciting, with Stratford-on-Avon and Mrs. Avory in it, to allow time for regrets.

After a day entirely without any adventures they found Mrs. Avory. She was waiting for them at the Shakespeare Hotel, which is one of the most fascinating inns in England, with staircases and pa.s.sages in lavish profusion, and bedrooms named after the plays. Hester and her mother slept in the "Winter's Tale," Janet and Mary in "Cymbeline." Robert and Gregory were "The Two Gentlemen of Verona" for the time being, and Horace and Jack lay in the "Comedy of Errors." Kink and Diogenes were somewhere at the back, and the Slowcoach was in the yard, surrounded by motor-cars.

At the next table at dinner--in a beautiful old room with green matting on the floor and a huge open fireplace--sat an old gentleman with white hair and bright eyes behind very luminous spectacles, and from the tone in which he talked to the waiter they guessed him to be an American.

After dinner he smoked cigarettes in an immensely long holder of amber and gold, and now and then smiled at the children.

They were all rather tired, and went quickly to bed. Robert, who, you remember, had been so contemptuous of the Shakespeare Hotel blankets and sheets, slept a full ten hours; never, indeed, can a Gentleman of Verona have pa.s.sed a better night; and the others expressed no grief at having to lie in proper beds once more.

When they came down to breakfast the next morning, they found a letter addressed to

Mr. KINK'S CHILDREN'S PARTY.

Shakespeare Hotel, Stratford-on-Avon.