Part 23 (1/2)

”That's funny, too,” mused Tilda. ”I never knew 'im be'ave like that 'cept when he met with a friend. Arthur Miles, you stay where you are--” She tiptoed forward and peered within. ”Lord sake, come an'

look 'ere!” she called after a moment.

The boy followed, and stared past her shoulder into the gloom.

There, in the centre of the earthen floor, wrapped around with straw bands, stood a wooden horse.

It was painted grey, with beautiful dapples, and nostrils of fierce scarlet. It had a tail of real horse-hair and a golden mane, and on its near shoulder a blue scroll with its name _Kitchener_ thereon in letters of gold. Its legs were extended at a gallop.

”Gavel's!” said Tilda. ”Gavel's, at ten to one an' no takers! . . . But why? 'Ow?”

She turned on 'Dolph, scolding, commanding him to be quiet; and 'Dolph subsided on his haunches and watched her, his stump tail jerking to and fro beneath him like an unweighted pendulum. There was a label attached to the straw bands. She turned it over and read: _James Gavel, Proprietor, Imperial Steam Roundabouts, Henley-in-Arden. Deliver Immediately_ . . . ”An' me thinkin' Bill 'ad gone north to Wolver'ampton!” she breathed.

Before 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 bra.s.s.

He pulled up, eyed the two children, and demanded to know what they meant by trespa.s.sing 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 ca.n.a.l 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 had strolled across from the lock bank, and stood conning the wagon and team. ”Henley-in-Arden? O Helicon! If you'll excuse the remark, sir.

OParna.s.sus!”