“No, you dedn’t. Annie’s good-for-nawthen son brought it.” “But I brought it in,” she persisted. “It was lying on the path.” “Ah! Oi mind me now—he threw it at me.” “The wretch!” said Jinny, believing him. “Poor Gran’fer!” she cried with self-reproach, patting his hairy hand. “But it’s bedtime. Come along!” “Why did ye lie to me?” he repeated, unappeased. “There’s no funeral coach,” she persisted. But even as she spoke, the faint tooting of a horn was heard from afar. Nip, idly gulping at flies, pricked up his ears; the ancient uttered a cry: “The coach! The coach!” Jinny’s hand clutched his more tightly. They could now hear the distant rattling and jingling—the Flynt Flyer was incredibly coming their way, along that grass-grown road. What was it doing by that lonely Common, she wondered tremulously. What customers were there to steal here? Did the pirate hanker even after Uncle Lilliwhyte? “You’ll lose your beauty sleep, Gran’fer!” She drew him towards the corkscrew staircase. But he broke from her convulsively and hobbled out into the path, and stood with hand at ear towards the advancing clatter. To be seen staring at its meteoric passing would be too dreadful. “Go in, Nip,” she cried with unwonted harshness. “Are you coming, Gran’fer?” she said, following the dog, “or shall I bolt you out? Must bolt up against thieves, you know.” And she began singing cheerily: “_There is Hey, there is Ree_” “Nay, ’tis the black hosses that bears the bells away, curse ’em. What should coaches be doing in these parts?” “Same as me, I suppose,” she said with desperate lightness. “It’s only that young man who fancies himself a-driving and a-blowing.” “A young man come to steal _my_ business!” “Well, one can’t lock that up! Come in, Gran’fer.” “Oi’ll lock _him_ up! What’s the thief’s name?” “He’s not a thief. It’s the young man from Frog Farm.” “That whippersnapper! Come with a coach to drive over you and me——!” “That’s just what he’d try to do if we stand here! Come inside—the jackanips’ll only think we’re envying his bonkka turn-out.” The argument and the touch of idiom succeeded, though she could feel his form shaking with passion as she drew him in. “Why did ye keep it from me?” he asked pitifully. “Because I knew you’d get in a state.” As she shot the bolts, the better to shut Will out, she realized that her beating heart was somehow left outside, and that it was drawing her after it through doors howsoever barred and windows howsoever fastened, if only to watch the pageant of his passing. “A funeral coach,” the ancient was mumbling, “you and Jinny may well call it so, ole sluggaby.” “Yes, indeed, we may, Gran’fer,” she said, smiling. “For it’s his own funeral he’s conducting. He’ll soon come a cropper.” “Blast him!” growled the Gaffer. “Hush!” Jinny was shocked. “It’s all as fair as fair.”