The French are indeed a great people, for among many other things they alone have caught that magic sound a woman’s garments make as she walks, and given it to the world in the one word “frou-frou.”

0 wondrous word! 0 word sublime! How full art thou of delicate suggestion! Truly, there can be no sweeter sound to ears masculine upon a golden summer afternoon - or any other time, for that matter - than the soft “frou-frou” that tells him SHE is coming.

At this point my thoughts were interrupted by something which hurtled through the air and splashed into the water at my feet!” Glancing at this object, I recognised the loud-toned cricket cap affected by the Imp, and reaching for it, I fished it out on the end of my rod!” It was a hideous thing of red, white, blue, and green - a really horrible affair, and therefore much prized by its owner, as I knew.

Behind me the bank rose some four or five feet, crowned with willows and underbrush, from the other side of which there now came a prodigious rustling and panting!” Rising to my feet therefore, I parted the leaves with extreme care, and beheld the Imp himself.

He was armed to the teeth - that is to say, a wooden sword swung at his thigh, a tin bugle depended from his belt, and he carried a bow and arrow. Opposite him was another boy, particularly ragged at knee and elbow, who stood with hands thrust into his pockets and grinned.

“Base caitiff, hold!” cried the Imp, fitting an arrow to the string: “stand an’ deliver!” Give me my cap, thou varlet, thou!” The boy’s grin expanded.

“Give me my cap, base slave, or I’ll shoot you - by my troth!” As he spoke the Imp aimed his arrow, whereupon the boy ducked promptly.

“I ain’t got yer cap,” he grinned from the shelter of his arm. “It’s been an’ gone an’ throwed itself into the river!” The Imp let fly his arrow, which was answered by a yell from the Base Varlet.

“Yah!” he cried derisively as the Imp drew his sword with a melodramatic flourish. “Yah! put down that stick an’ I’ll fight yer.”

The Imp indignantly repudiated his trusty weapon being called “a stick” - “an’ I don’t think,” he went on, “that Robin Hood ever fought without his sword!” Let’s see what the book says,” and he drew a very crumpled papercovered volume from his pocket, which he consulted with knitted brows, while the Base Varlet watched him, open-mouthed.

“Oh, yes,” nodded the Imp; “it’s all right!” Listen to this!” and he read as follows in a stern, deep voice:

“‘Then Robin tossed aside his trusty blade, an’ laying bare his knotted arm, approached the dastardly ruffian with many a merry quip and jest, prepared for the fierce death-grip.’”

Hereupon the Imp laid aside his book and weapons and proceeded to roll up his sleeve, having done which to his satisfaction, he faced round upon the Base Varlet.

“Have at ye, dastardly ruffian!” he cried, and therewith ensued a battle, fierce and fell.

If his antagonist had it in height, the Imp made up for it in weight - he is a particularly solid Imp - and thus the struggle lasted for some five minutes without any appreciable advantage to either, when, in eluding one of the enemy’s desperate rushes, the Imp stumbled, lost his balance, and next moment I had caught him in my arms. For a space “the enemy” remained panting on the bank above, and then with another yell turned and darted off among the bushes.

“Hallo, Imp!” I said.

“Hallo, Uncle Dick!” he returned.

“Hurt?” I inquired.

“Wounded a bit in the nose, you know,” he answered, mopping that organ with his handkerchief; “but did you see me punch ‘yon varlet’ in the eye?”

“Did you, Imp?”

“I think so, Uncle Dick; only I do wish I’d made him surrender!” The book says that Robin Hood always made his enemies ‘surrender an’ beg their life on trembling knee!’ Oh, it must be fine to see your enemies on their knee!”

“Especially if they tremble,” I added.

“Do you s’pose that boy - I mean ‘yon base varlet’ would have surrendered?”

“Not a doubt of it - if he hadn’t happened to push you over the bank first”

“Oh!” murmured the Imp rather dubiously.

“By the way,” I said as I filled my pipe, “where is your Auntie Lisbeth?”

“Well, I chased her up the big apple-tree with my bow an’ arrow.”

“Of course,” I nodded!” “Very right and proper!”

“You see,” he explained, “I wanted her to be a wild elephant an’ she wouldn’t.”

“Extremely disobliging of her!”

“Yes, wasn’t it? So when she was right up I took away the ladder an’ hid it.”

“Highly strategic, my Imp.”

“So then I turned into Robin Hood. I hung my cap on a bush to shoot at, you know, an’ ‘the Base Varlet’ came up an’ ran off with it.”

“And there it is,” I said, pointing to where it lay!” The Imp received it with profuse thanks, and having wrung out the water, clapped it upon his curls and sat down beside me.

“I found another man who wants to be me uncle,” he began.

“Oh, indeed?”

“Yes; but I don’t want any more, you know.”

“Of course not!” One like me suffices for your everyday needs - eh, my Imp?”

The Imp nodded. “It was yesterday,” he continued. “He came to see Auntie Lisbeth, an’ I found them in the summer-house in the orchard. An’ I heard him say, ‘Miss Elizbeth, you’re prettier than ever!”

“Did he though, confound him!”

Yes, an then Auntie Lisbeth looked silly, an’ then he saw me behind a tree an’ he looked silly, too, Then he said, ‘Come here, little man!’ An’ I went, you know, though I do hate to be called ‘little man.’ Then he said he’d give me a shilling if I’d call him Uncle Frank.”

“And what did you answer?”

“‘Fraid I’m awfull’ wicked,” sighed the Imp, shaking his head, “‘cause I told him a great big lie.”

“Did you, Imp?”

“Yes!” I said I didn’t want his shilling, an’ I do, you know, most awfully, to buy a spring pistol with.”

“Oh, well, we’ll see what can be done about the spring pistol,” I answered. “And so you don’t like him, eh?”

“Should think not,” returned the Imp promptly!” “He’s always so - so awfull’ clean, an’ wears a little moustache with teeny sharp points on it.

“Any one who does that deserves all he gets,” I said, shaking my head. And what is his name?”

“The Honourable Frank Selwyn, an’ he lives at Selwyn Park - the next house to ours.”

“Oho!” I exclaimed, and whistled.

“Uncle Dick” said the Imp, breaking in upon a somewhat unpleasant train of thought conjured up by this intelligence, “will you come an’ be ‘Little-John under the merry greenwood tree? Do?”

“Why what do you know about ‘the merry greenwood,’ Imp?”

“Oh lots!” he answered, hastily pulling out the tattered book. “This is all about Robin Hood an’ Little-John. Ben, the gardener’s boy, lent it to me. Robin Hood was a fine chap an’ so was Little-John an’ they used to set ambushes an’ capture the Sheriff of Nottingham an’ all sorts of caddish barons, an’ tie them to trees.

“My Imp,” I said, shaking my head, “the times are sadly changed. One cannot tie barons - caddish or otherwise - to trees in these degenerate days.”

“No, I s’pose not,” sighed the Imp dolefully; “but I do wish you would be Little-John, Uncle Dick.”

“Oh, certainly, Imp, if it will make you any happier; though of a truth, bold Robin,” I continued after the manner of the story books, Little-John hath a mind to bide awhile and commune with himself here; yet give but one blast upon thy bugle horn and thou shalt find my arm and quarter-staff ready and willing enough, I’ll warrant you!”

“That sounds awfull’ fine, Uncle Dick, only - you haven’t got a quarter-staff, you know.”

“Yea, ‘tis here!” I answered, and detached the lower joint of my fishing rod. The Imp rose, and folding his arms, surveyed me as Robin Hood himself might have done - that is to say, with an ‘eye of fire.’

“So be it, my faithful Little-John,” quoth he; “meet me at the Blasted Oak at midnight. An’ if I shout for help - I mean blow my bugle - you’ll come an’ rescue me, won’t you, Uncle Dick?”

“Ay; trust me for that,” I answered, all unsuspecting.

“‘Tis well!” nodded the Imp; and with a wave of his hand he turned and scrambling up the bank disappeared. Of the existence of Mr. Selwyn I was already aware, having been notified in this particular by the Duchess, as I have told in the foregoing narrative. Now, a rival in air - in the abstract, so to speak - is one thing, but a rival who was on a sufficiently intimate footing to deal in personal compliments, and above all, one who was already approved of and encouraged by the powers that be, in the person of Lady Warburton - Lisbeth’s formidable aunt - was another consideration altogether.

“Miss Elizabeth. you’re prettier than ever!”

Somehow the expression rankled. What right had he to tell her such things? - and in a summer-house, too; - the insufferable audacity of the fellow!

A pipe being indispensable to the occasion, I took out my matchbox, only to find that it contained but a solitary vesta.

The afternoon had been hot and still hitherto, with never so much as a breath of wind stirring; but no sooner did I prepare to strike that match than from somewhere - Heaven knows where - there came a sudden flaw of wind that ruffled the glassy waters of the river and set every leaf whispering. Waiting until what I took to be a favourable opportunity, with infinite precaution I struck a light. It flickered in a sickly fashion for a moment between my sheltering palms, and immediately expired.

This is but one example of that “Spirit of the Perverse” pervading all things mundane, which we poor mortals are called upon to bear as best we may. Therefore I tossed aside the charred match, and having searched fruitlessly through my pockets for another, waited philosophically for some “good Samaritan” to come along. The bank I have mentioned sloped away gently on my left, thus affording an uninterrupted view of the path.

Now as my eyes followed this winding path I beheld an individual some distance away who crawled upon his hands and knees, evidently searching for something. As I watched, he succeeded in raking a Panama hat from beneath a bush, and having dusted it carefully with his handkerchief, replaced it upon his head and continued his advance.

With some faint hope that there might be a loose match hiding away in some corner of my pockets, I went through them again more carefully, but alas! with no better success; whereupon I gave it up and turned to glance at the approaching figure. My astonishment may be readily imagined when I beheld him in precisely the same attitude as before - that is to say, upon his hands and knees.

I was yet puzzling over this phenomenon when he again raked out the Panama on the end of the hunting-crop he carried, dusted it as before, looking about him the while with a bewildered air, and setting it firmly upon his head, came down the path. He was a tall young fellow, scrupulously neat and well groomed from the polish of his brown riding boots to his small, sleek moustache, which was parted with elaborate care and twisted into two fine points. There was about his whole person an indefinable air of self-complacent satisfaction, but he carried his personality in his moustache, so to speak, which, though small, as I say, and precise to a hair, yet obtruded itself upon one in a vaguely unpleasant way. Noticing all this, I thought I might make a very good guess as to his identity if need were.

All at once, as I watched him - like a bird rising from her nest - the devoted Panama rose in the air, turned over once or twice and fluttered (I use the word figuratively) into a bramble bush. Bad language was writ large in every line of his body as he stood looking about him, the hunting-crop quivering in his grasp.

It was at this precise juncture that his eye encountered me, and pausing only to recover his unfortunate headgear, he strode toward where I sat, “Do you know anything about this?” he inquired in a somewhat aggressive manner, holding up a length of black thread.

“A piece of ordinary pack-thread,” I answered, affecting to examine it with a critical eye.

“Do you know anything about it?” he said again, evidently in a very bad temper.

“Sir,” I answered, “I do not.”

“Because if I thought you did - “

“Sir.” I broke in, “you’ll excuse me, but that seems a very remarkable hat of yours.

“I repeat if I thought you did - “

“Of course,” I went on, “each to his taste, but personally I prefer one with less ‘gymnastic’ and more ‘stay -at-home, qualities.”

The hunting-crop was raised threateningly.

“Mr. Selwyn?” I inquired in a conversational tone.