“Well, here’s sixpence,” said Will graciously. “No, no,” he explained hastily, as the ancient began handing over the wriggling reptile. “Kill the beggar.” And he hurried homewards. On second thoughts—inspired perhaps by some dim impression of a female figure flitting among the clothes-lines behind the Hall—he would not risk an encounter with Jinny, but make a special call upon poor, lonely old Daniel on the morrow. Jinny would then be out on her rounds. And if he took care to go at about the hour she was due at Frog Farm, he could avoid her at both places. Yes, that were tactics worthy of a man of the world. Casual conversation with his elders reminded him, however, that Jinny was not expected that Friday. She had already left the parcel of groceries on the Tuesday. He was thus safe from her for eight days—he had only to remain at home. But the discovery that the whole of Friday was free from any possibility of her appearance at Frog Farm, and that Blackwater Hall was equally immune from her presence, seemed to remove the zest of his diplomacy. Neighbour Quarles remained unvisited, his solitude unmitigated, and Will wandered aimlessly on the high road between Bradmarsh and Chipstone. The year was at its most beautiful moment. The hedges were white with hawthorn, and the fresh young leaves on the trees gave an exquisite sense of greenness without blurring the structural grace of the branches, while the unspoiled cadence of the cuckoo’s cry came magically over the sunny meadows. But Will could only swish viciously with his stick at the hedges and litter the lanes with ruined blossom. It was with no little surprise that, as he and his elders sat at high tea on this same evening, they heard the windings of Jinny’s horn. The three sprang up: then Will sat down again. “Ain’t you comin’ out to see Jinny?” asked Caleb. “Let the boy drink his tea,” said Martha. “But you ain’t never spoke to her yet,” persisted Caleb. “And you used to give her eggs.” “Let the boy eat his eggs himself,” said Martha sternly. “Oi dedn’t mean they eggs,” laughed Caleb. “Do go and see what Jinny can want,” Martha commanded him. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it _is_ eggs—now that Mr. Flippance has opened his show he’ll be wanting them regularly.” “Whatever for?” asked Will. “He sucks ’em raw, like weasels, him and his darter,” explained Caleb. “They should say it’s good for the woice, and by all accounts showmen fares to have a mort o’ pieces to speak.” “But why doesn’t Jinny sell him her own eggs?” asked Will. “How do you know she has them?” asked Martha quickly. “Hasn’t she?” he said lightly, reddening like the comb of the cock he had heard crowing. “Not enough. That old sinner eats her out of house and home.” “Mr. Flippance?” murmured Will. “No, no. Her grandfather. Why don’t you go, Caleb?”