Conducted by Gabriel, they disappeared down the road, and the Artist was alone with his fate. He had no premonition of disaster. He lay on the grass with his eyes closed, wrapped in the joys and miseries of being in love.
The living croquet-arches, with one impulse, got their heads together and considered the situation.
“I, for one, shall go and take a look around the kitchen,” said Clarence.
“It’s the roof of the house for me,” said William; “I haven’t had a good view of the surrounding country since strawberry-time.”
“What about that chap on the grass?” asked Gustavius. “What will he be doing?”
“That reminds me,” said Reginald; “now’s your chance, Gustavius. You’ve been longing to catch him alone.”
The bull-calf shook his horns sulkily. “I kind of hate to do it. He seems to be a friend of the red-headed girl.”
“Besides, my son,” observed Mrs. Cowslip, “none of our race ever attacks a sleeping person.”
“Leave that to me,” said Reginald; “it’s time an example should be made of these outsiders.”
Clarence agreed with him. They began circling around the prostrate enemy, gradually drawing nearer, nipping at his legs or arms and darting away, until at length Clarence’s teeth brought their victim to his feet with a yell of mingled surprise and pain. But the Artist was not of a vengeful disposition.
“Ha! ha!” he laughed, “you’re spoiling for a frolic, I see!”
He ran toward the colt and then turned, as though inviting pursuit. The invitation was accepted with a unanimity that thoroughly alarmed the Artist. Even Mrs. Cowslip and Cleopatra were making hostile demonstrations, while William was backing away with a significance that caused the Artist to seize a croquet mallet as he dodged about the field. This was enough for the bull-calf, who began bellowing and pawing the earth, while his eyes turned red.
“Good fellows! good boys!” said the Artist, holding out his hand.
But they gathered about him closer yet, with snorts, bellows, and grunts which convinced the Artist it was time to exert authority. So he shouted in a stern voice:—
For answer the indignant pig ran between his legs, all but upsetting him, and the others crowded in closer yet. Thoroughly frightened, the Artist decided that extreme measures were justifiable. Recalling the magic word whispered in his ear by the Poet, he raised his hand and thundered:—