Mr.Chalk, pausing merely to wipe his brow, which had suddenly become very damp, bent to his work with renewed vigour.

It is an old idea that whistling aids manual labour; Mr.Chalk, moistening his lips with a tongue grown all too feverish for the task, began to whistle a popular air with much liveliness.
The idea was ingenious, but hopeless from the start.

The whistle at the end of the garden became piercing in its endeavour to attract attention, and, what was worse, developed an odd note of entreaty.

Mr.Chalk, pale with apprehension, could bear no more.
"Well, I think I've done enough for one night," he observed, cheerfully and loudly, as he thrust his spade into the ground and took his coat from a neighbouring bush.
He turned to go indoors and, knowing his wife's objection to dirty boots, made for the door near the kitchen.

As he passed the drawing-room window, however, a low but imperative voice pronounced his name.
"Yes, my dear," said Mr.Chalk.
"There's a friend of yours whistling for you," said his wife, with forced calmness.
"Whistling ?" said Mr.Chalk, with as much surprise as a man could assume in face of the noise from the bottom of the garden.
"Do you mean to tell me you can't hear it ?" demanded his wife, in a choking voice.
Mr.Chalk lost his presence of mind.