“Why? Because I’m a child of nature—a simple player—who wears his heart on his sleeve for daws to peck at. My last mare crocked up in a week in the flower of her youth—seems to have been bought in a knacker’s yard, shaved and singed and brushed and combed till she was as shiny as a Derby winner. They gingered her ears and jaws and cayenne-peppered her nostrils till she seemed clothed in thunder, like the war-horse in the Bible.” Will smiled despite himself. “And you expect a girl to see through all that! Look here, I’ll buy your horse.” Mr. Flippance paused in the act of imbibing. “Oh, _there_ we are,” he said, looking shrewd. “Want to cut out Jinny’s business!” Will’s cheeks became chromatically indistinguishable from his hair. “Me! Do you think I want your dirty commission?” “And do you think I want your stinking horse? Why the devil do you come interfering?” Will was silent. Tony finished his glass like a victor. “If it ain’t the commission, what _are_ you after?” “That’s my business,” said Will sullenly. “Just what I said!” crowed Tony. “But I’d rather pay Jinny a quid than you a bob. She’s got her old grandfather to keep!” “Yes, and he’s as selfish and inconsiderate as you. But she _shan’t_ get you a horse, and there’s an end of it.” “Oho!” Brandy had made him genial again. “Who’s going to prevent it? Now don’t say ‘_I_ will,’ because that’s in our dramas—attitude and all. Though judging by the way you’ve been going on, Mr. Anon, I’m not so sure you _wouldn’t_ make an actor! Perhaps Polly smelt right and you _are_ one after all. But don’t you come disturbing my peace of mind, you son of a star. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me back to the legitimate.” “We’re talking of caravan horses,” said Will, at once mystified and mollified. “You seem to know all about it. I guess you ran a show yourself in the States.” Will smiled darkly. “That’s not your affair.” “But it might be. I’m not above a partner with capital. Duke’s Marionettes are getting shabby. The ghost is nearly black; Ophelia wants a new coat of paint. Harlequin is out of joint and the Clown’s cheeks are worn white. And we’ve got too few characters and too many plays. The public are on to it when they see Hamlet turning up again in _The Beggar of Bethnal Green_. Some new scenery too would smarten up the show. I shan’t expect you to pull the strings—just put up the chinkers and we’ll divvy up, you and me and Polly. Now don’t say ‘No’ too quick. Drink it over.” And, beaming beneficence, he again tendered Will the other glass. This time Will took it, hearing himself clink it against Tony’s through a daze, as he asked himself whether, after all, this notion—utterly fantastic and unexpected as it was—mightn’t be as good a way as any other of investing his ninety pounds: he would certainly be in a position then to stop Jinny from buying the horse! “Well, what do you say?” cried Tony.