learned to deceive.

"So it is," said Cyril.

"It's a puncture," said Anthea, stooping down, and standing up again
with a thorn which she had got ready for the purpose.

"Look here."

The grown-up Lamb (or Hilary, as I suppose one must now call him) fixed
his pump and blew up the tyre. The punctured state of it was soon
evident.

[Illustration: The punctured state of it was soon evident]

"I suppose there's a cottage somewhere near--where one could get a pail
of water?" said the Lamb.

There was; and when the number of punctures had been made manifest, it
was felt to be a special blessing that the cottage provided "teas for
cyclists." It provided an odd sort of tea-and-hammy meal for the Lamb
and his brothers. This was paid for out of the fifteen shillings which
had been earned by Robert when he was a giant--for the Lamb, it
appeared, had unfortunately no money about him. This was a great
disappointment for the others; but it is a thing that will happen, even
to the most grown-up of us. However, Robert had enough to eat, and that
was something. Quietly but persistently the miserable four took it in
turns to try and persuade the Lamb (or St. Maur) to spend the rest of
the day in the woods. There was not very much of the day left by the
time he had mended the eighteenth puncture. He looked up from the
completed work with a sigh of relief, and suddenly put his tie straight.

"There's a lady coming," he said briskly,--"for goodness' sake, get out
of the way. Go home--hide--vanish somehow! I can't be seen with a pack
of dirty kids." His brothers and sisters were indeed rather dirty,
because, earlier in the day, the Lamb, in his infant state, had
sprinkled a good deal of garden soil over them. The grown-up Lamb's
voice was so tyrant-like, as Jane said afterwards, that they actually
retreated to the back garden, and left him with his little mustache and
his flannel suit to meet alone the young lady, who now came up the front
garden wheeling a bicycle.

The woman of the house came out, and the young lady spoke to her,--the
Lamb raised his hat as she passed him,--and the children could not hear
what she said, though they were craning round the corner and listening
with all their ears. They felt it to be "perfectly fair," as Robert
said, "with that wretched Lamb in that condition."

When the Lamb spoke, in a languid voice heavy with politeness, they
heard well enough.

"A puncture?" he was saying. "Can I not be of