Читать книгу The Peacock Feather. A Romance онлайн

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Peter was an artist. It seemed almost incredible that a tin instrument which could be purchased for a penny could be made to produce such sounds.

He was playing a joyous lilt. You could hear the song of birds and feel the soft west wind blowing from distant places; and through it was a measured beat as of feet walking along the open [Pg 9]road. Yet under all the gaiety and light-heartedness lay a strange minor note, a note that somehow found reflection in Peter’s blue eyes.

Peter finished his tune and put the whistle-pipe in his pocket. From a wallet beside him he pulled out a hunch of bread and cheese and a very red and shiny apple. He opened a large clasp-knife, cut the hunch of bread in two, and fell to eating slowly. His hands were long-fingered, flexible, and very brown. There was a lean, muscular look about Peter altogether. His clothes were distinctly shabby. They consisted of a pair of grey trousers, very frayed at the edges, and with a patch of some darker material on one knee; a soft white shirt, spotlessly clean; and a loose jacket, grey flannel like the trousers. A felt hat lay on the ground near him. In it was fantastically stuck a peacock feather. Beside the hat was a small bundle rolled up in a bit of sacking.