“Turned on the tap like a Christian. Same as your Methusalem opens our gate.” Elijah picked up his pipe and his cap and scrambled down. “Appears to me I’ve been brought here under false pretences.” “We’ll pay you all the same,” said Caleb with dignity. “But how am I to get back to Chipstone?” He had followed Maria in reckless abandonment, and now came the prose of life with its questions. “If we’re going to pay the gentleman,” put in Martha, “he may as well have a look at Maria.” Mr. Skindle agreed it was as well to make a possible future patient’s acquaintance, but repeated his inquiry. “There’s Shanks’s mare,” said Jinny blandly. Caleb pointed towards the brook. “It’s onny seven miles by Swash End through Plashy Walk.” “Plashy Hall has a dog,” objected Elijah. “Well, you’re used to dogs,” said Jinny. “My instrument-case is too heavy. You’ll have to give me a lift to your house.” “With pleasure,” she said. “But Blackwater Hall is still farther from Chipstone.” “Anyhow I can get a trap from the village,” he said firmly. “No, you can’t, and even if you walk to Long Bradmarsh it’s a toss-up if you’ll get anything at ‘The King of Prussia.’” “Well, take me as far as the bridge—I’ll pay extra.” “I can’t guarantee Methusalem will go back.” “That’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “Horses know I stand no nonsense. And now, Uncle, as soon as I’ve lit my pipe, I’ll be ready for the pig. Got a match?” To his disgust, Caleb produced a lucifer and a phial of sulphuric acid for dipping it in. The now well-established friction matches—that boon to the idle and extravagant—had not yet reached Frog Farm, where even flint and steel had been dispossessed but slowly. But the relit pipe was comforting. “Wait a moment, Mr. Flynt,” said Jinny, tendering a packet as he started convoying the vet. “Your neckerchief!” “Neckerchief!” cried Martha. “And what about my new bonnet?” “’Twas only to be cleaned,” Caleb reminded her. “And by the same token, mother, don’t forget we settled the wet was to read the letter.” Elijah raised his eyebrows. “Ah, yes—I’ll get it.” And Martha hurried within. “You see, Jinny,” Caleb explained, “the missus got a letter from Cousin Caroline, and we thought the gentleman here could make one job of it with the pig.” “But why can’t I read it?” “You ain’t married.” “No more is Mr. Skindle.” Elijah flushed furiously. “Noa—but ef it’s too—too womanish, Oi’ll arx him kindly to break it to me, sow Oi can break it to the missus when he’s gone.” “Is this the letter?” asked Jinny, as Martha reappeared with it. “That’s her—came all of an onplunge,” he repeated. “But that’s not from your Cousin Caroline!” said Jinny, with a thrill of excitement as she took it. “Noa?” gasped Caleb, as if the world was tumbling about his ears. Then he smiled. “You’re making game—you ain’t opened her yet.” “But who else is it from?” cried Martha, catching her excitement. “Can’t you see? It’s from Will.”