“I don’t see what I should do with a horse,” said Tony, “seeing that I’m setting up the Flippance Palace Theatre as a local landmark. Of course I might have a play written round him,” he mused, “or even round ’em both. They would certainly ‘draw’ all Chipstone, especially with a carriage behind ’em. Odd, isn’t it? There’ll be scores of carriages waiting outside my theatre, yet to see one on the stage gives everybody a thrill. Lord, how the public does love to see natural things in unnatural places! As my old pa used to say—my real pa, I mean—put an idiot on the stage and he gives pleasure, put him in the stalls and he writes dramatic criticism! Ha, ha, ha!” “Then you do want ’em?” said Will eagerly. “If you’re ready to bring in the noble animals as part of the capital, I’ll look around for a dramatist to work ’em in.” “You’d best look around for a capitalist,” retorted Will in angry disappointment. “I’ve told you before, I’m going into farming.” “Then you’ll want the horses yourself.” “They’re no good for farming,” Jinny corrected. “Ain’t they?” said Tony, surveying them with a fresh eye. “Then why did he buy them?” Will got angrier. “That’s my business. Do you want them or not?” “I can always do with anything. A play’s a pie you can shove anything into. You’d look bully yourself, as you Americans say, riding just as you are: just a cowboy costume, that’s all you need. Will you do it?” “Will I do what?” “Play lead and supply your own horses.” “Don’t be a fool—or try to make me one. I’m a plain farmer.” Tony grinned. “Jinny don’t seem to think ’em suitable for plain farming. I reckon you’d better set up as undertaker. They’ll go lovely with a hearse. All you need is a corpse.” “And I shan’t be long finding one!” hissed Will. Tony clapped his hands. “That’s the style. Lord, man, what a wasted actor!” Jinny could not suppress a smile. It brought Will’s temper to breaking-point. “These horses at least won’t be wasted,” he said to her at a white heat. “For I’ll take our friend’s advice.” “Harness ’em to a hearse?” murmured Jinny. “No, to a coach. I’ll put an end, miss, to your mannish ways.” “Indeed!” Jinny bridled up, without, however, quite following the threat. “You’ve done for yourself,” he explained. “You’ve forced me into competition. You’ve got me the horses—there’s no end of out-of-work coaches on the market to be got for an old song. I’ll carry passengers and luggage faster and cheaper than you, and heavier stuff too, and I’ll wipe you out.” Jinny grew white, but at the venom of his words, not their business significance. Her instinct retorted with a smile. “And I got you the horn, too, don’t forget that.” “I don’t—I was thinking of that. It’s all your doing—and serve you jolly well right.” He turned sneeringly to Mr. Flippance. “So I won’t be a wasted musician either.” “Oho!” said Jinny. “And shall we see you on the box-seat all a-crowing and a-blowing?” “I know you still think I can’t blow—but you shall see.”