“Go away!” commanded Mrs Bosenna after a minute or so, looking up with tear-stained eyes.  It seemed that she had suddenly became aware of his presence.

Cai picked up his hat.  “I was waitin’ your leave, ma’am.”

“Go, please!”

He went.  He was indeed anxious to be gone.  Very likely at the white gate below by the stream, ’Bias was standing in wait to knock his head off.  Cai did not care.  Nothing mattered now—­nothing but a desire to follow ’Bias and have another word with him.  It might even be. . . .  But no:  ’Bias was lost to him, lost irrevocably.  Yet he craved to follow, catch up with him, plead for one more word.

He went quickly down the path to the gate, but of ’Bias there was no sign.

Poor Cai!  He took a step or two down the road, and halted.  Since ’Bias was not in sight there would be little chance of overtaking him on this side of the town; and in the street no explanation would be possible.

Cai turned heavily, set his face inland, and started to walk at a great pace.  As though walking could exorcise what he carried in his heart!

Meanwhile ’Bias went striding down the valley with equal vigour and even more determination.  His right hand gripped the parrot-cage, swinging it as he strode, and at intervals bumping it violently upon the calf of his right leg, much to his discomfort, very much more to that of the bird—­ which nevertheless, though bewildered by the rapid nauseating motion, and at times flung asprawl, obstinately forbore to reproduce the form of words so offensive in turn to Mrs Bowldler and the ladies at Rilla.

Once or twice, as his hand tired, and the rim of the cage impinged painfully on his upper ankle-bone, ’Bias halted and swore—­

“All right, my beauty!  You just wait till we get home!”

He had never wrung a bird’s neck, and had no notion how to start on so fell a deed.  He was, moreover, a humane man.  Yet resolutely and without compunction he promised the parrot its fate.

A little beyond the entrance of the town, by the gateway of Mr Rogers’s coal store, he came on a group—­a trio—­he could not well pass without salutation.  They were Mr Rogers (in his bath-chair and wicked as ever) and Mr Philp, with Fancy Tabb in attendance as usual.

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied this time?” Mr Rogers was saying.

“I suppose I must be,” Mr Philp was grumbling in answer.  “But all I can say is, coals burn faster than they used.”

“It’s the way with best Newcastle.”  Mr Rogers, who had never sold a ton of Newcastle coal in his life (let alone the best), gave his cheerful assurance without winking an eye.

“So you’ve told me more’n once,” retorted Mr Philp.  “I never made a study o’ trade rowts, as they’re called; but more’n once, too, it’s been in my mind to ask ye how Newcastle folk come to ship their coal to Troy by way o’ Runcorn.”