“A girl! Me!” Mr. Flippance pulled himself angrily to his feet, and stood glaring at Will, with the snapped bell-cord in his hand like a green serpent. “You son of Ananias, if you’ve listened to any of those scandal-mongering swine you ought to be jolly well ashamed of yourself. There isn’t a cleaner man—for a widower—in all the circuit. Why, I could pile up the dollars—as you call it—if I’d only darken my tent a bit, so that the lovers of the drama could go rubbing their noses and licking one another like the calves in the next field. But there isn’t a brighter show this side of the Atlantic. Besides, my girls are all wood—there’s not a flesh and blood female with me except Polly, and she’s my own daughter, born on the right side of the blanket, too. Which is more than can be said for all of us. What may be _your_ name, now?” “What has my name to do with it?” He got off the bed. “What has his name to do with it?” asked Mr. Flippance of the waiter, who now shot in with a well-divined bottle and appurtenances. “Beg pardon, sir?” “And so you may, you son of a slug. Here, take this rope and hang yourself with it! So you won’t tell your name, you son of a flea,” he went on, when the waiter had spirited off the breakfast-tray. “Well, here’s my back—bite away.” And with a high tragic gesture he turned to open the brandy-bottle. “I’m not a backbiter,” said Will angrily. “I’m a front-puncher, and my name is——” “Never mind your name. I accepted you. You came like the spirit of the May Day—mixed with the _Mayflower_. I opened my heart to you. I gave you three names. I was Duke, I was Anthony Flippance, I was Tony Flip.” He gurgled the brandy into his glass. “I demanded no references. I entrusted you with posters for my daughter.” “Which I delivered honestly.” “But anonymously.” “My name is——” “Hush! Not for a million pounds would I hear it now. But the girl’s name?” he turned round, glass in hand. “That at least I beg.” “I’ve mentioned it already. It’s—it’s the Carrier.” “Jinny!” Tony Flip burst into an explosive laugh of relief. “Fancy calling Jinny a girl!” “And what else would you call her?” “What _you_ just called her—the Carrier.” “Then if she is a carrier, why should you degrade her into a horse-broker?” “Oh, that’s all you mean, is it?” “Isn’t that enough?” “Don’t be an idiot. Here, have a drink.” Will waved the glass away. “Would you like to send your daughter bargaining among a lot of rough men?” Tony grinned. “I don’t think Polly ’ud mind the men. It’s the horse she’d come a cropper over. Jinny’s had a long experiance of horses, and she’s smart enough to buy anything. If I wanted the moon, she’d get it for me—and cheap too!” “And why can’t you buy your own horses?”