Rambling

(Based on Mary Renault's The Charioteer)

It was another long hot day in the summer hols, and he was miles from home, wondering if it was time to turn back.   It wouldn't do to be late for tea again.
          Laurie looked down at the wiry brown fur of the dog lolloping beside the bike, and got an upward look.   Gyp was fine with any decision, as long as the two of them were together.   Exploring, from the boy's perspective:   the dog, alone during term, probably knew the area rather better.   It was the first time Laurie had gone so far.   It was the first time he'd been able, though he knew the woods closer to home as well as he did the old garden.   But the bicycle was a novelty.   He had arrived home to find it waiting for him, a belated birthday present.   There had been a cake with candles, a sweater that it was too warm to wear, and a new Bulldog Drummond book that he'd already borrowed at school.   He hadn't told his mother.   It was almost as good a read second time round, anyway.
          Laurie had had to learn to ride his new property before he could be allowed loose to explore the countryside around their village.   The next afternoon, his mother dutifully admired as he wobbled down the path; but she shrieked when Gyp jumped at him and he fell off.   It had all been rather embarrassing.   It had taken a week to break Gyp of the habit; and only then did she agree reluctantly to let him go for the day, supplied with a packet of sandwiches for sustenance, stuffed in his pocket with an apple he'd scrumped half a mile later.
          There was a signpost up ahead.   When he peddled up close enough to see what it said, he found that he was almost four miles from the village, if he turned off left.   That decided him, since he was sure he'd come further than that if he had to retrace his steps.   The hypotenuse of the triangle, he thought, remembering the geometry lessons of last term.
          Obediently signalling, even though there was no car in sight, he turned; and, after a moment's hesitation, Gyp followed him.   The sign said that there was another village no more than a quarter mile ahead—a mere half dozen houses, but one was a shop.   It was Wednesday, but it was open; and he stopped in to buy himself a bottle of ginger beer.   There was a tap in the yard, and the shopkeeper let him pour out a puddle for the dog, who lapped it eagerly.   It was a very hot day.
          Not like last week, he thought.   The two of them had been out, down by the river, rain or no.   He'd been trying to catch a fish.   There was a big trout, not that he'd ever quite got the hang of guddling, even though Old Henry, the local poacher, had shown him how.   He'd not told his mother.
          Gyp had jumped into the water after a frog, and he'd slipped on the bank trying to stop him.   They had arrived home covered in mud, and been caught by Mrs Timmings trying to sneak through the kitchen unnoticed.  He'd had to shut Gyp in the shed before having a bath.   It had been Tuesday, bath night was Friday:   his mother had not been pleased at the waste of hot water. Nor at the trouble he caused letting Gyp track muddy paw prints across the clean kitchen floor for Mrs Timmings to wipe up, when she was so obliging, coming in every day.   Laurie, who rather liked Mrs Timmings' cakes, was suitably contrite.
          He finished the ginger beer, called Gyp back from whatever he was investigating in the hedge, and set off again on his bike.   He really had better not be late home for tea.   Mrs Timmngs had promised gooseberry pie.   And there might be a bone for Gyp.