"You've a fine notion of things, Jane," said Castleton. "By gad, if every mother were like you, what a race we should have." "I'm not in a hurry for him to do anything." "I meant what a race of Englishmen, not bicycles," Castleton explained. "Oh, I see," said Jenny vaguely. He was taking her aspirations out of their depth. "No, but I do think it's dreadful," she went on, "to see kids moping just because their mothers and fathers want them to stick at home. My mother wasn't like that. Yes, she used to go on at me, but she always wanted me to enjoy myself so long as she knew there was no harm in it." "Your mother, Jane, must have been a great woman." "I don't know about that, but she was a darling, and always very smart--you know, dressed very nice and had a good figure. But look at my father. He sends us a postcard sometimes with a picture of a bed or a bottle of Bass on it which is all he thinks about. And yet he's alive, and she's dead." Finally Castleton promised that should young Frank display a spark of ambition, he would do his best to help him achieve it. "Whatever it is," said Jenny. "Of course not if he wants to be a dustman, but anything that's all right." Then, the morning being nearly spent, they turned back towards Bochyn. Castleton mounted on a slope at a run to pull Jenny up from above. "Hullo," he cried, "somebody's been watching us." "They always do on these towans," said Jenny. "I'll soon haul the scoundrel into daylight," and with a shout he charged down through the rushes, almost falling over the prostrate body of Old Man Veal. Castleton set him on his feet with a jerk and demanded his business, while Jenny with curling lips stood by. The old man would not say a word, and his captor, balked of chastisement by his evident senility, let him shamble off into the waste. "That's one of the men on the farm," said Jenny. "I suppose he'll get the sack." "I don't think so, then. I think he's edged on by someone else to follow me round." Chapter XLV: _London Pride_ Jenny and Castleton followed the course of the stream along the valley towards Bochyn. The bracken was a vivid brown upon the hillsides; the gorse was splashed with unusual gold even for Cornwall; lapwings cried, wheeling over the head of the ploughman ploughing the moist rich earth; a flight of wild duck came unerringly down the valley, settling with a great splash in the blue and green marsh. Trewhella met them, stepping suddenly out from a grove of arbutus trees, a thunderous figure. "What do 'ee mean?" he roared. "What do 'ee mean by carrying my missus off for wagging tongues? Damn ye, you great overgrown Cockney, damn ye, what do 'ee mean to come sparking here along?" By Trewhella's side stood his dog, a coarse-coated, wall-eyed brute, half bobtail, half collie. Much alike seemed the pair of them, snarling together in the path.