A PLAGUE OF MICE 153

Monticello, but she did not intend to miss getting the correct time at this other Atlantic observatory of Greenwich. We pedalled along, still dustily red from the morning’s ride. The nearest human being in the district seemed to be a small figure in a large straw hat busily bent over some turnips in a field beside the road. Farther back stood a cosy house with a complacent, white-washed face.

Now was her chance. She would try this little boy

. . Her face became suddenly determined. She brought her wheel to a stop and addressed the bent back.

“ Is your mother home, dear?”

The bent back of an old, old man straightened up slowly and painfully and an ancient wizened face turned itself gradually in our direction.

“Eh?” he replied, cupping his ear.

Jean gulped.

“Is this the road to . . . to St. Peter’s?”

“Can’t hear you. Speak up!”

“The road to St. Peter’s, ” she yelled half-heartedly.

”Louder!"

“To St. Peter’s!" we yelled together.

“Straight ahead!”

We pedalled off briskly.

“What time did he say it was, Jean?” I asked innocently.

“Daytime,” she retorted tartly.

We pedalled along in silence for a while.

“Look here,” Jean remarked suddenly, “did you ever stop to think that if you did not have a penny and yet you wanted to travel around this Island, you could do so very easily?”

“Think so?”