With it
there jingled the spare latchkey with which Mrs. Basket had entrusted
him.
He picked it up. . . . Yes, why should he not take a turn in the
garden to compose his mind? In his present agitation he was not
likely to woo slumber with success. . . . He slipped on his coat
again and descended the stairs, latchkey in hand. A lamp burned in
the hall, and by the light of it he read the hour on the dial of a
grandfather's clock that stood sentry beside the dining-room door--
five-and-twenty minutes past ten. The Baskets would not be returning
for another hour at least. He unlatched the front door, stepped out,
and closed it softly behind him.
Now mark how simply--how, with a short laugh--by the crook of a
little finger, as it were--the envious gods topple down the tallest
human pride.
The Major descended the front steps, halted for a moment to peer at a
statuette of Hercules resting on his club, and passed on down the
central path of the garden with a smile for his worthy friend's
foible. A dozen paces, and his toe encountered the rim of Mr.
Basket's fish-pond. . . .
The Major went into Mr. Basket's fish-pond souse!--on all fours,
precipitately, with hands wildly clawing the water amid the
astonished goldfish.
The echo of the splash had hardly lost itself in the dark
garden-alleys before he scrambled up, coughing and sputtering, and
struggling to shore rubbed the water from his eyes.
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