fore the boy could ask her meaning they heard the rumble of wheels
outside; and Tilda, catching him by the arm, hurried him back to the
doors just as a two-horse wagon rolled down to the wharf, in charge of
an elderly driver--a sour-visaged man in a smock-frock, with a
weather-stained top hat on the back of his head, and in his hand a whip
adorned with rings of polished brass.

He pulled up, eyed the two children, and demanded to know what they
meant by trespassing in the store.

"We were admirin' the 'orse," answered Tilda.

"An' likewise truantin' from school," the wagoner suggested. "But
that's the way of it in England nowadays; the likes o' me payin' rates
to eddicate the likes o' you. An' that's your Conservative Government
. . . Eddication!" he went on after a pause. "What's Eddication?
Did either o' you ever 'ear tell of Joseph Arch?"

"Can't say we 'ave."

"He was born no farther away than Barford--Barford-on-Avon. But I
s'pose your schoolmaster's too busy teachin' you the pianner."

Tilda digested the somewhat close reasoning for a moment, and answered--

"It's fair sickenin', the amount o' time spent on the pianner. Between
you an' me, that's partly why we cut an' run. You mustn' think we 'ate
school--if on'y they'd teach us what's useful. 'Oo's Joseph Arch?"

"He was born at Barford," said the wagoner; "an' at Barford he lives."

"'E must be a remarkable man," said Tilda, "an' I'm sorry I don't know
more of 'im. But I know Gavel."

"Gavel?"

"'Im as the 'orse belongs to; an' Bill. Gavel's a remarkable man too in
'is way; though not a patch on Bill. Bill tells me Gavel can get drunk
twice any day; separate drunk, that is."

"Liberal or Conservative?"

"Well," hesitated Tilda, playing for safety, "I dunno as he 'd tell,
under a pint; but mos' likely it depends on the time o' day."

"I arsked," said the wagoner, "because he's hired by the Primrose Feet;
an' if he's the kind o' man to sell 'is princerples, I don't so much
mind 'ow bad the news I breaks to him."

"What news?"

The man searched in his pocket, and drew forth a greasy post card.

"He sent word to me there was six painted 'osses comin' by canal from
Burning'am, to be delivered at the Wharf this mornin'; an' would I fetch
'em along to the Feet Ground, Henley-in-Arden, without delay?"

"Henley-in-Arden!" exclaimed a voice behind the children; whereat Tilda
turned about with a start. It was the voice of Mr. Mortimer, who