“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 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.  OParnassus!”

“Maybe I might,” said the wagoner guardedly, “if I understood its bearin’s.”

“Name redolent of Shakespeare!  Of Rosalind and Touchstone, Jaques and Amiens, sheepcrooks and venison feasts, and ballads pinned to oaks!  What shall he have who killed the deer, Mr.—?”

“’Olly,” said the wagoner.

“I beg your pardon?”

“’Olly—­James ‘Olly and Son, Carters an’ ’Auliers.”

“Is it possible? . . . better and better!  Sing heigho! the Holly, this life is most jolly.  I trust you find it so, Mr. Holly?”

“If you want to know,” Mr. Holly answered sourly, “I don’t.”

“You pain and astonish me, Mr. Holly.  The penalty of Adam, the season’s difference”—­Mr. Mortimer turned up his furred collar—­“surely, sir, you will allow no worse to afflict you?  You, a dweller on the confines of Henley-in-Arden, within measurable distance, as I gathered?”

“Mile an’ a ’arf.”

“No more?  O Phoebus and the Nine!”

“There was,” said Mr. Holly, “to ‘a been six.  An’ by consequence here I be with a pair of ‘osses an’ the big wagon.  Best go home-along, I reckon, an’ fetch out the cart,” he grumbled, with a jerk of his thumb indicating a red-tiled building on the hillside, half a mile away.