"Well, it's a most astonishing thing to me," Percival would say when the cover went up, and the chicken settled out of the steam. "Most amazing! You know I like chicking better than anything, and every time I come you just happen to have chicking for dinner! Most amazing to me, you know!" And Mr. Hannaford would lay down the carving knife and fork and stare at the chicken and say: "Well, it is a chickun again, so it is, bless my eighteen stun proper if it ain't!" and would give a tremendous wink at Ob in order to enjoy with him the joke arising from the fact that directly Percival was sighted on the farm a messenger was sent to Ob to prepare the meal that Percival liked best. Then they would eat away, and pull away at the colossal tankards, and Percival would always make a point of saying: "Stingo not home?" A long pull at the tankard and a heavy sigh from Mr. Hannaford: "Not just yet, little master. Still restless, I'm afraid. Still restless." And Percival, in the old phrase and with the air of a grandfather: "Well, he'll settle down, you know. He'll settle down." "Why, that's just what I say!" Mr. Hannaford would exclaim, immensely comforted. "Settle down--of course he will! Just what I'm always telling him, bless my eighteen stun proper if it ain't!" Always the same jolly lunch, always the same mingled seriousness and jolly fun, always the same jokes. Percival did not know that much of it was carefully planned by Mr. Hannaford that he might enjoy the fullest relish of the Pocket Marvel's visit. There was the great chicken joke, there was also the killing joke for the production of which by Percival Mr. Hannaford would dawdle lunch to an inordinate length. At length it would come: "Nothing I can have a ride on, I suppose, Mr. Hannaford?" Percival would say with careful carelessness. "Never a norse fit for it," Mr. Hannaford would reply, equally off-hand. A heavy sigh from Percival: "Oh, dear! Sure, I suppose?" "Certain! Got a little brown 'orse--but there, you'd never ride him." "I bet I would! I bet I would!" Mr. Hannaford, looking terribly fierce and in a very violent voice: "Bet you wouldn't!" "Try me, then! Only try me!" And Mr. Hannaford would bounce up and seize his cane, and they would rush off, and the saddle would be put on the little brown 'orse, and Percival would mount him and gallop him and cry "You see! You see!" And Mr. Hannaford would pretend huge amazement and declare that Percival was a proper little Pocket Marvel, bless his eighteen stun proper if he wasn't.