"Thanks," says Mr. Tyrol, not much the wiser. "Let me see. I've got to go down to the green lane, and then past Mrs. Wilson's cottage; but how am I to know which is the right cottage--and how far it is?" "Oh, any chap 'ull tell yer ould Betty's place; it's better nor six mile if yer go one way and under four if yer tak t' other." "And which is the short way?" is Mr. T.'s next question. "Well," replies his director, "yew mun go as I've tould yer, till yer come t' lane, then turn into field past the works. Yer know the works maybe?" and on Mr. Tyrol confessing his ignorance, after a pause: "Ah, that maks a 'nation difference, doan't it?" The fact is not for a moment to be disputed, and Mr. Tyrol is in despair, when suddenly a bright idea strikes Hodge, and he looks up, saying: "Perhaps you're a-going fox-'unting?" As it is not customary for people to ride about in pink, save in civic processions, unless they are "on sport intent," it becomes hardly necessary to answer, and Mr. T. wonders what Hodge could possibly have thought he was going to do. "If so be," however, continues the pedestrian, "I'm a-going t' meet mysen, and I can show yer t' road. Can that 'oss jump? Acos we've got to go through Farmer Danby's meaders, and 'e most allus locks his gates." Notwithstanding the chance of a locked gate and a nasty fence in cold blood, Mr. Tyrol thinks it an opportunity not to be lost, and gladly avails himself of the proffered guidance, while Hodge sees a prospective shilling in the horizon, which, with great accuracy, he divides as he tramps along into "three pots o' four." "And what sort of a country is Langley?" asks the directee of his guide and director, after about a quarter of a mile passed in silence. "Foine country for turnips," is the reply. "I mind when Mr. Arles--you knows him I'll be bound? Not know Mr. Arles! Why I thought everyone know'd him, he's the biggest man about these parts; he was the Dook's agent. Well, I mind when he got better nor----" Here Mr. Tyrol thinks it advisable to check the flow of Hodge's conversation, as he sees plainly that unless he does so he will be in for an agricultural dissertation on the producing power per acre of Mr. Arles' land, so he cuts him short with "I don't mean that; I mean what sort of a country is it to ride over? Stiff big fences, or what?" "Some big, some littel; but there's allus a road as you can git along if so be as you don't care about leping; and there's any amount o' foxes--swarms on 'em. Why, it was only last week as ould Jim tould me as Bill Upton 'ad tould him as he see'd two when he wor working in Squire Beale's plantation. But there's Langley, sir. Thank ye kindly." And Hodge, the richer by a shilling, stops at the wayside public-house to drink the stranger's health.