As an audience William was tough stuff. He pretended deafness; he never looked. He did not want to look. He seemed always to be holding his nose in front of his face to prevent his observation—as men pray into their hats at church. But once Judy Bowles overheard a phrase or so in his private soliloquy. “Pack o’ wimmin,” William was saying. “Dratted petticoats. _Dang_ ’em. That’s what I say to ’um. _Dang_ ’em!” As a matter of fact, he just fell short of saying it to them. But his manner said it.... You begin to see how acceptable an addition was young Bealby to this company. He was not only helpful, immensely helpful, in things material, a vigorous and at first a careful washer-up, an energetic boot-polisher, a most serviceable cleaner and tidier of things, but he was also belief and support. Undisguisedly he thought the caravan the loveliest thing going, and its three mistresses the most wonderful of people. His alert eyes followed them about full of an unstinted admiration and interest; he pricked his ears when Judy opened her mouth, he handed things to Mrs. Geedge. He made no secret about Madeleine. When she spoke to him, he lost his breath, he reddened and was embarrassed.... They went across the fields saying that he was the luckiest of finds. It was fortunate his people had been so ready to spare him. Judy said boys were a race very cruelly maligned; see how _willing_ he was! Mrs. Geedge said there was something elfin about Bealby’s little face; Madeleine smiled at the thought of his quaint artlessness. She knew quite clearly that he’d die for her.... § 8 There was a little pause as the ladies moved away. Then William spat and spoke in a note of irrational bitterness. “Brasted Voolery,” said William, and then loudly and fiercely, “Cam up, y’ode Runt you.” At these words the white horse started into a convulsive irregular redistribution of its feet, the caravan strained and quivered into motion and Bealby’s wanderings as a caravanner began. For a time William spoke no more, and Bealby scarcely regarded him. The light of strange fortunes and deep enthusiasm was in Bealby’s eyes.... “One Thing,” said William, “they don’t ’ave the Sense to lock anythink up—whatever.” Bealby’s attention was recalled to the existence of his companion. William’s face was one of those faces that give one at first the impression of a solitary and very conceited nose. The other features are entirely subordinated to that salient effect. One sees them later. His eyes were small and uneven, his mouth apparently toothless, thin-lipped and crumpled, with the upper lip falling over the other in a manner suggestive of a meagre firmness mixed with appetite. When he spoke he made a faint slobbering sound. “Everyfink,” he said, “behind there.” He became confidential. “I been _in_ there. I larked about wiv their Fings.” “They got some choc’late,” he said, lusciously. “Oo Fine!” “All sorts of Fings.”