There are circumstances in which even the least energetic of
mankind learn to behave with vigour and decision; and the most
cautious forget their prudence and embrace foolhardy resolutions.
This was one of those occasions for Harry Hartley; and those who
knew him best would have been the most astonished at the lad's
audacity. He stopped dead, flung the bandbox over a garden wall,
and leaping upward with incredible agility and seizing the
copestone with his hands, he tumbled headlong after it into the
garden.
He came to himself a moment afterwards, seated in a border of small
rosebushes. His hands and knees were cut and bleeding, for the
wall had been protected against such an escalade by a liberal
provision of old bottles; and he was conscious of a general
dislocation and a painful swimming in the head. Facing him across
the garden, which was in admirable order, and set with flowers of
the most delicious perfume, he beheld the back of a house. It was
of considerable extent, and plainly habitable; but, in odd contrast
to the grounds, it was crazy, ill-kept, and of a mean appearance.
On all other sides the circuit of the garden wall appeared
unbroken.
He took in these features of the scene with mechanical glances, but
his mind was still unable to piece together or draw a rational
conclusion from what he saw. And when he heard footsteps advancing
on the gravel, although he turned his eyes in that direction, it
was with no thought either for defence or flight.
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