They had left him in the garden like a garden statue; there might
have been a dolphin coiling round his legs, or a fountain pouring out
of his mouth, for all the notice they had taken of Innocent Smith.
He stood with his crest of blonde, blown hair thrust somewhat forward,
his fresh-coloured, rather short-sighted face looking patiently
downwards at nothing in particular, his huge shoulders humped,
and his hands in his trousers pockets. So far as they could guess
he had not moved at all. His green coat might have been cut out
of the green turf on which he stood. In his shadow Pym had expounded
and Rosamund expostulated, Michael had ranted and Moses had ragged.
He had remained like a thing graven; the god of the garden.
A sparrow had perched on one of his heavy shoulders; and then,
after correcting its costume of feathers, had flown away.
"Why," cried Michael, with a shout of laughter, "the Court of Beacon
has opened--and shut up again too. You all know now I am right.
Your buried common sense has told you what my buried common sense has
told me. Smith might have fired off a hundred cannons instead of a pistol,
and you would still know he was harmless as I know he is harmless.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115