Chapter 21 - Page 2

that someone was believed to have spent
the night in the Gardens, a young gentleman who walked out
hastily the moment the gates were opened. He had said nothing,
however, of having seen a dog. I feared an accident now, for I
knew no thief could steal him, yet even an accident seemed
incredible, he was always so cautious at crossings; also there
could not possibly have been an accident to Porthos without there
being an accident to something else.

David in the middle of his games would suddenly remember the
great blank and step aside to cry. It was one of his qualities
that when he knew he was about to cry he turned aside to do it
and I always respected his privacy and waited for him. Of course
being but a little boy he was soon playing again, but his sudden
floods of feeling, of which we never spoke, were dear to me in
those desolate days.

We had a favourite haunt, called the Story-seat, and we went back
to that, meaning not to look at the grass near it where Porthos
used to squat, but we could not help looking at it sideways, and
to our distress a man was sitting on the acquainted spot. He
rose at our approach and took two steps toward us, so quick that
they were almost jumps, then as he saw that we were passing
indignantly I thought I heard him give a little cry.

I put him down for one of your garrulous fellows who try to lure
strangers into talk, but next day, when we found him sitting on
the Story-seat itself, I had a longer scrutiny of him. He was
dandiacally dressed, seemed to tell something under twenty years
and had a handsome wistful face atop of a heavy, lumbering,
almost corpulent figure, which however did not betoken
inactivity; for David's purple hat (a conceit of his mother's of
which we were both heartily ashamed) blowing off as we neared him
he leapt the railings without touching them and was back with it
in three seconds; only instead of delivering it straightway he
seemed to expect David to chase him for it.

You have introduced yourself to David when you jump the railings
without touching them, and William Paterson (as proved to be his
name) was at once our friend. We often found him waiting for us
at the Story-seat, and the great stout fellow laughed and wept
over our tales like a three-year-old. Often he said with
extraordinary pride, "You are telling the story to me quite as
much as to David, ar'n't you?" He was of an innocence such as
you shall seldom encounter, and believed stories at which even
David blinked. Often he looked at me in quick alarm if David
said that of course these things did not really happen, and
unable to resist that appeal I would reply that they really did.
I never saw him irate except when David was still sceptical,