What Timmy Did | Page 8

exceptionally intelligent, naughty, rather spoilt little
boy, too apt to take every advantage of a certain physical delicacy. This
was also the view taken of him by his half-brothers, and by two out of
his three step-sisters. But the three who really loved him, his mother,
his nurse, and his eldest half-sister, Betty, were convinced that the child
was either possessed of a curious, uncanny gift of--was it second
sight?--as his old nurse entirely and his mother half, believed, or, as Dr.

O'Farrell asserted, some abnormal development of his subconscious
self. All three were ruefully aware that Timmy was often--well, his
mother called it "sly," his sister called it "fanciful," his nurse by the
good old nursery term, "deceitful."
It was this unlovable attribute of his which made it so difficult to know
whether Timmy believed in the positive assertions occasionally made
by him concerning his intimate acquaintance with the world of the
unseen. That he could sometimes visualise what was coming to pass,
especially if it was of an unpleasant, disturbing nature, was, so his
mother considered, an undeniable fact. But sometimes the gift lay in
abeyance for weeks, even for months. That had been the case, as Mrs.
Tosswill had told Dr. O'Farrell, for a long time now--to be precise,
since March, when, to the dismay of those about him he had predicted
an accident in the hunting field which actually took place.
Timmy walked on up the steep bit of road which led to the upper part
of the beautiful old village which was, like many an English village,
shaped somewhat like a horseshoe--and then suddenly he stopped and
gazed intently into a walled stable-yard of which the big gates were
wide open.
Beechfield was Timmy Tosswill's world in little. He was passionately
interested in all that concerned its inhabitants, and was a familiar and
constant, though not always a welcome visitor to every cottage. Most
of the older village men and women had a certain grudging affection
for the odd little boy. They were all well aware of, and believed in, the
gift which made him, as the nurse had once explained to a crony of hers,
"see things which are not there," though not one of them would have
cared to mention it to him.
Timmy had a special reason for wishing to know what was going on in
this stable-yard, so, after a moment's thought, he walked deliberately
through the gates as if he had some business there, and then he saw that
two men, one of whom was a stranger to him, were tidying up the place
in a very leisurely, thoroughgoing manner.
The back door of The Trellis House, as the quaint-looking, long, low

building to the right was incongruously named, opened into the
stable-yard and by the door was a bench. Timmy walked boldly across
the yard and established himself on the bench and his dog, Flick,
jumped up and sat sedately by him. The little boy then took a small
black book out of his pocket. The book was called "The Crofton Boys"
and Timmy had chosen it because the name of the new tenant of The
Trellis House was Mrs. Crofton, a friend, as he was aware, of his
godfather, Godfrey Radmore. He wondered if she had any boys.
The two men, busy with big new brooms, came up close to where
Timmy was sitting. When the child, obviously "one of the gentry," had
walked into the stable-yard, they had abruptly stopped talking; but now,
seeing that he was reading intently, and apparently quite uninterested in
what they were doing, they again began speaking to one another, or
rather one of them, a hard-bitten, shrewd-looking man, much the older
of the two, began talking in what was, though Timmy was not aware of
it, a Cockney dialect.
"You won't find 'er a bad 'un to work for, m'lad. I speak of folks as I
find them. I'm not one to take any notice of queer tales!"
"Queer tales. What be the queer tales, Mister Piper?"
Timmy knew this last speaker. He was the baker's rather sharp younger
son, and Mrs. Crofton had just engaged him as handy man.
The older man lowered his voice a little, but Timmy, who, while his
eyes seemed glued to the pages of the book he held open, was yet
listening with all his ears, heard what followed quite clearly.
"It ain't for me to spread ill tales after what I've told you, eh? But the
Colonel's death was a reg'lar tragedy, 'twas, and some there were who
said that 'is widder wasn't exactly sorry. 'E were a melancholy cove for
any young woman to 'ave to live with. But there, as my old mother used
to say, 'any old barn-door can keep out the draught!'"