Stretched at length behind the bush, she had, between the fork of its stem, a clear view of the approaching boat.  Its well coverings were loose, and by the upper lock gate the steersman laid it close along shore and put out a gang-plank.  His mate, after fitting a nosebag on the horse, came at a call to assist him, and together they lifted out a painted wooden steed wrapped in straw, and carried it to the store.

Having deposited it there, they returned and unloaded another.  Five horses they disembarked and housed thus; and then, like men relieved of a job, spat on their hands and turned to work their boat down through the locks.  For twenty minutes the children lay prone and watched them, Tilda still keeping a hand on the scruff of ’Dolph’s neck.  Then, as the boat, having gained a clear reach of water, faded down in the gathering dusk, she arose and stretched herself.

“For anyone but Bill I wouldn’ risk it,” she said.  “But maybe his credit depends on gettin’ them ’osses delivered to-night.”

She took Arthur Miles by the hand, found the road, and dragged him uphill at a trot towards the group of red brick buildings that showed between the trees.

The buildings consisted of a cottage and a long stable or coach-house contiguous.  This presented a blank white-washed wall to the road, but a Gloire de Dijon rose spread itself over the cottage front, almost smothering a board with the inscription:  S.  Holly and Son, Carters and Hauliers.

Tilda knocked, and her knock was answered by a sour-visaged woman.

“Well, an’ what can I do for you?” asked the woman, staring down from her doorstep on the children.

“If you please, ma’am, is Mr.  ’Olly at ’ome?”

“No, he ain’t.”

“I knew it,” said Tilda tranquilly.  “But by all accounts ’e’s got a son.”

“Eh?”

The woman still stared, divided between surprise and mistrust.

“You’re mistakin’,” Tilda pursued.  “I ain’t come with any scandal about the fam’ly.  A grown-up son, I mean—­with a ‘orse an’ cart.  Because, if so, there’s five gallopin’ ‘orses down at the wharf waitin’ to be taken over to Henley-in-Arden.”

“Oh?” said the woman.  “My ’usband left word Gustavus was to fetch ’em along if they arrived.  But who sent you with the message?”

“I’ve a friend in Gavel’s business,” Tilda answered with dignity.  “’E’s what you might call Gavel’s right ‘and man—­an’ ’e’s ’andy with ’is right, too, when ’e’s put out.  If ’e should ‘ear—­I’m advisin’ for yer good, mind—­if ’e should ’ear as five ’orses was ’ung up on the wharf ’ere through S.  ‘Olly an’ Son’s neglect, you may look out for ructions.  An’ that’s all I promise.”

She turned back towards the wharf, and even as Arthur Miles turned to follow they could hear the woman calling loudly, summoning her son from his tea in the kitchen.

“I reckon,” commented Tilda, “I put the fear o’ Bill into that woman.  You may ‘a noticed I didn’ like her looks.”