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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

back to the schoolroom with a sensation of gloating
uncertainty. Heron's Gate was hard to find, but I
arrived at it in the end, marked in very small print
with Windmill right up against it and a big green
patch called Park Wood quite near. I wondered what
it would look like, and at once visualized a large, dim
bird sitting on a white gate. ... I had never seen a
heron, but it sounded nice. . . . But when I began
measuring the distance with a bit of string both bird
and gate were obliterated by the melancholy number
of miles which meandered across the map. The
string told its tale too plainly. Heron's Gate was a
good twelve miles to go. ...

The situation now seemed desperate, but Dixon
might be able to do something about it. Without
saying a word to Aunt Evelyn I waited until we were
well away on our afternoon ride, and thcu asked,
quite casually, "Have you ever been to Heron's
Gate, Tom?" (I had been telling him about the
dance, but had not mentioned Denis Mildcn.) Dixon
gravely admitted that he knew Heron's Gate quite
well. There was a short silence, during whieh lie
pulled his horse back into a walk. "Is it far from
us?" I remarked innocently. He pondered lor a"
moment. "Let's see—it's some way the other side of
Hugget's Hill. . . . About twelve miles from us, 1
should think." I fingered Sheila's mane and tried
another tack. "How far were we from home when
we finished up the other night?"

"About twelve miles."

Unable to restrain myself any longer, I blurted out
my eagerness to go to the meet next Tuesday. I never
suspected that Dixon had known this all the time,
though I might have guessed that he had looked up
the list of meets in the local paper. But he was

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