er." He
dropped his voice to the old confidential note. "Pinch the hair off the
back o' your head while you're sleepin', they would. Wonder who they
sneaked _her_ off?"

He turned his rogue-eye on the young man on the chestnut pony jogging at
his side, winked, and made a movement with his elbow.

"Course if they was to claim her, I got her off of an old friend o' mine
down in the West Country," he said, raising his voice. "Better still
Ireland as further away. Yes, South of Ireland--a'ter Punchestown. He'd
better be dead, too, my old friend--so he can't tell no tales and deny
no stories." He elaborated his idea with glee, clapping his sides with
his elbows. "Yes, that's about it. I bought her in at the sale of the
effects of an old friend o' mine, South of Ireland--to help his widie.
That's got it. Good idee. Very good idee. Charity _and_ business--what
they like. Micky Mahon, his name was. Died o'--I must have it all pat on
the tongue. What _did_ he die of, Brand? You're an artful little feller,
settin' there so smug and secret like a hen crocodile a-hatchin' h'out
h'its h'egg."

"Lung-trouble's best, sir," replied the little jockey gravely. "I reck'n
you can't go far with lung-trouble. See, we all dies o' shortness o'
breath in the latter end. That _is_ lung-trouble in a manner o'
speakin'."

"Lung-trouble's good," said the old man. "Vairy good. You're a good
little lad, Brand. You help me in my hour o' need...."

"Father!" came the stern voice from the back seat.

The old man began to flap with his elbows.

"There she goes, givin' tongue! Is that you, Miss?" he called, in his
half-humorous whimper. "You wasn't meant to hear that. Your ears is
altogether _too_ long--like that young Lollypop hoss o' mine."

They swung away off the crest of the Downs and began to drop down the
slope into the village of Cuckmere lying beneath them in the valley
among trees.

The sun dipped into the sea as they turned with a noise of grinding
wheels into the village street. The news of Goosey Gander's victory had
preceded them and they drove slowly through little crowds of cheering
children, between old flint cottages with tiled roofs, and gardens white
with arabis and overspread with fig-trees.

As they turned a corner, Putnam's lay before them, a Queen Anne
manor-house, homely, solid, snug, with low blue parapeted roof, standing
a little back from the road, and buttressed by barns and
stable-buildings.

Directly they came