“I would suggest that, you being the younger man—­”

“Well, I don’t mind,” said Sam.  “On’y the p’int is I don’t scarcely never fight without attractin’ notice.  The last time ’twas five shillin’ an’ costs or ten days.  An’ there’s the children to be considered.”

During this debate Tilda and Arthur Miles had wandered ashore with ’Dolph, and the dog, by habit inquisitive, had headed at once for a wooden storehouse that stood a little way back from the waterside—­ a large building of two storeys, with a beam and pulley projecting from the upper one, and heavy folding-doors below.  One of these doors stood open, and ’Dolph, dashing within, at once set up a frantic barking.

“Hullo!” Tilda stepped quickly in front of the boy to cover him.  “There’s somebody inside.”

The barking continued for almost half a minute, and then Godolphus emerged, capering absurdly on his hind legs and revolving like a dervish, flung up his head, yapped thrice in a kind of ecstasy, and again plunged into the store.

“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 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?”