"The model polo pony," continued Joses. "Refused L600 for him at Islington, didn't you? And I don't blame you. You're rich, we all know, Mr. Silver. L600's no more to you than sixpence to me. But there's the pony! You can't replace him. Pity if he got away here on the edge of the cliff and all." For the second time that morning Joses's luck deserted him. "I'll hold your pony," said a deep voice from behind. The fat man turned. Boy Woodburn stood behind him. Fresh from the sea, her hair in short, thick plaits of gold, dark and wet and bare; with the eyes of a sword and the colour of an apple-blossom; the brine upon her and the brown of wind and sun; in her breeches, boots, and jersey, her big dog straining on his lead, she looked like Diana turned post-boy. "Thank you," said the young man, handing over his pony. Joses snorted. "Call yourself a woman!" he cried. "I'm all right," answered the girl, seating herself critically on a mound, the pony in one hand, the dog in the other. "Don't hit him over the heart," she advised out of some experience of race-course scraps. "There might be trouble." "I sha'n't hit him at all," replied the young man. He seized the fat man by the shoulder and spun him round. "I shall--_shake_ him, and--_punt_ him." The girl did not know what punting meant, but it sounded good and was not so bad to watch. Silver was applying his knee to his victim with precision and power. The fat man's teeth seemed to rattle under the pounding shocks. The words came joggling out of him, and they were not pretty words. He struck backward with his arms and feet, wriggling to get his plump shoulders free; but he was helpless as a baby in the arms of a nurse. Silver was strong. Joses was right in that if in nothing else. "He's killing me!" he gasped. "Fetch the coastguard!" "No, thank you," said the girl. The young man loosed his prey at last, and sent him spinning forward, projecting him with a kick. Joses fell on his face, and stayed there fumbling, while he vomited oaths. "Look out!" cried the girl sharply. "He's got a knife, and he'll use it." She was right. Joses was busy with that wooden-handled sheath-knife of his. Silver took a step forward. "Ah, then!--would you?" he scolded, and hit the other a tap over the wrist with the handle of his hunting crop. Joses yelped and dropped the knife. Then he scrambled to his feet, wringing his hand. The brown of his face had turned a dirty livid. "I see what it is!" he cried. "Assignation. And I spoiled the sport--what! You and the dandy toff. _Him and me, Beside the sea._ _Quite_ unintentional, I assure you!" He bowed, cackling horribly. Silver looked ugly. "Now then!" he said, and advanced a pace. The girl put a staying hand upon him; and the tout shambled away toward the Gap, muttering to himself. Silver turned to his companion. He was breathing deep, but outwardly unmoved. "Are you all right?" he asked.