“I wish you were! Anything but a carrier.” “Don’t say that. Would you like me to buy another pair of gloves—on your account?” “If you would!” he said eagerly. “Thank you! _But still he’d-sing fol de rol iddle ol._ “What size do you take?” “Stow that fol-de-riddling—you know I don’t mean gloves for _me_.” “Are you taking back the order?” she said, with feigned disappointment. “I never gave you an order!” he said, goaded. “I’d cut my tongue out sooner.” “Keep your tongue between your teeth. You’ll want it to give me an order with before you’re a week older.” “Never! I’d as soon shoe a horse with a hairpin.” He snatched up his cages decisively, one in each hand, and the adder rolled on to the ground, bursting its strawy cerements. The girl’s grey eyes flashed steel-like. “And can’t I drive as well as Gran’fer? And don’t I know the roads?” And she uplifted her horn from her girdle and blew a resounding blast of defiance. It set all the cocks crowing behind the house and brought Caleb bustling from within it. “Did you summon me, Jinny?” he asked. “Gracious, Will, whatever you got there?” His eyes expanded to see the sinuous animals swirling fiercely against their wires; in coming nearer to peer at them, he stumbled over the snake and uttered a cry. “It’s all right,” called Jinny. “It’s dead.” “You killed it, Willie?” he asked. “With a drumstick,” said Jinny gravely. “Fiddlesticks, father!” said Will angrily. “Oi don’t care what sort o’ stick you killed that with,” said Caleb, “so long as it’s a dead corpse. But do ye come in now—mother’s grousin’ about the tea gittin’ cold.” “I like cold tea. Go in, father. I’m just coming.” He harked back to her blast of rebellion. “You may be able to drive, and you may know the roads. But can’t you see how unnatural it is, you perched up there and blowing a horn like Dick Burrage of the County Flyer?” “And do I blow it as fine as he?” she asked eagerly. “Anybody can blow a horn,” he answered curtly. “Can they now?” She was piqued again. “I’d like to see anybody do it. Why, Gran’fer can’t.” “Gran’fer hasn’t got much breath left. I’m not talking of men in their eighties.” “He is in his nineties,” she corrected. “Exactly. I meant anybody with proper lungs.” “Can _you_ blow it?” “Why shouldn’t I be able to blow it?” “All right! Blow it!” said Jinny gravely. She unslung it with one arm and held it down. He gazed at it, taken aback, sandwiched between his cages. “It’s no good opening your mouth,” she said. “I’m not going to stick it in. You’ll have to put down those horrible beasts and do that yourself. Why don’t they keep still? They make my head ache.”