As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter; his purple whiskers which still bristled like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky white. He was wearing a long fawn dust-coat which flapped about the calves of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering importance, but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His carelessness, however, was now the prosperous untidiness of one who could afford it. In his lapel he wore a scarlet geranium. As I stepped out, he came fussily towards me. “Very good of you to come, I’m sure--kind and very thoughtful.” It was his pretense manner--the one he adopted with grown-ups. I wanted to remind him that with me he could take off his armor. “Still go in for breeding hens?” I asked him. His face brightened. “I should say so. Our little place is quite a menagerie. We’ve cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and a parrot. And hens! Well, I should say so.” “_And hens_,” I laughed. “Remember the old white hen you gave me? It laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.” “Should have given it gravel or oyster-shells.” Poultryraising was a subject he never treated lightly. He fussed along beside me, explaining with his old enthusiasm the mysterious ways of fowls. Outside the station a dog-cart was standing, with a fat little piebald pony between the shafts. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot. “D’you know what this reminds me of?--That first day we spent together. You remember--when you drove me away from Pope Lane behind Dollie?” He pulled out his handkerchief and trumpeted. His eyes became dreamy beneath his bushy brows. “A long time ago! They were good days, but not as good as these, old chap.” We fell to remembering. The pony slowed down to a walk. How everything came back as we talked! And how ripping the old Spuffler had always been, and how ripping it was to be near him now! He had put aside his armor of pretense and was talking naturally. We talked together of that first day when we had met the gipsies in the Surrey woodland, and we talked of the Red House, and of all the times that we had been happy. A warm wind fluttered about us. I caught Uncle Obad looking at me fixedly, dropping his eyes and then looking up again, as though he were trying to satisfy himself. “That _Sir_ don’t seem to have spoiled you.” The red walls of Dorking were left behind. A white chalky road stretched before us, climbing upward to the skyey downs; over to the left rose a wooded ridge, somnolent with pines; to the right lay a village-common across which geese waddled in solemn procession. Uncle Obad roused himself and shook the reins. “This won’t buy a pair of shoes for the baby. Aunt Lavinia’s waiting for us; she’s just as keen as I was to see whether you’ve altered.” Then to the pony, “Gee-up, Toby.”