After tea, when the Squire betook himself to the river, Margot sat, as usual, upon the lawn, with Lady Pomfret. Lionel slipped away to Fishpingle’s room. “Colloguing,” in his present feverish condition, soothed him. To Fishpingle he could exhibit flowers of speech, nose-gays of pretty sentiment. And he could talk emphatically of the future, the simple life full of costless pleasures, dignified by steady work, by the determination to solve Moxon’s problem, to make Pomfret land pay. Fishpingle nodded approvingly, making happy suggestions, collaborating whole-heartedly. In this agreeable fashion an hour or more may have passed away. Suddenly they heard the Squire’s voice in the courtyard, loud and clear. He was rating the egregious Bonsor. “I tell you, man, this is your damned carelessness. Unless I give my personal attention to every detail, things go to blazes. I am surrounded by a pack of fools.” Bonsor’s voice mumbled a reply. Fishpingle said quietly: “The Squire has not caught any fish.” Sir Geoffrey stumped in, fuming and fussing. Fishpingle rose to relieve him of rod, creel, and landing-net. Lionel said pleasantly: “Anything wrong, father?” “Everything,” snapped the angry man. “Tuesday is my unlucky day. I believe I was born on a Tuesday.” Fishpingle politely corrected him. “No, Sir Geoffrey. You were born on a Wednesday, at 1.45 a. m.” The Squire turned to Lionel. “I lost two beauties, and broke the tip of my rod.” Fishpingle assured him that the tip could be mended in ten minutes. The Squire fumed on: “Four thoroughbred pigs out of the new litter are dead. Mother overlaid ’em. There are moments when I wish my mother had overlaid me. Bonsor tells me we are nearly out of coal, Ben.” “I warned you, Sir Geoffrey, that we were running short a fortnight ago.” “You didn’t. If you had, I should have ordered a fresh supply by return of post. Bonsor says that no coal has been ordered, which proves conclusively that you did not tell me.” Lionel interrupted. “But he did, father. Fishpingle told you in my presence, just after luncheon, as you and I were going to look at the horse I rode yesterday.” Sir Geoffrey glared at both butler and son. “Just like him,” he snorted. “Ben knows perfectly well that a new horse, if he’s a decently bred ’un, drives everything else out of my head. Order the coal, Ben. Wire for a truck.” “Very good, Sir Geoffrey.” The Squire crossed to the hearth and sat down in Fishpingle’s big chair. He frowned portentously, muttering: “I am most confoundedly upset.” “I didn’t mean to upset you, Sir Geoffrey.” “Tchah! I’m not speaking of the coal, nor the pigs. This is Tuesday. Does Alfred go out on Tuesday?” “I let him go this afternoon, Sir Geoffrey.” “Did you know that Tuesday was Prudence Rockley’s afternoon off?” “No, Sir Geoffrey. Mrs. Randall lets Prudence go out, if there’s no pressing work.” The Squire stamped his foot.