Frenchman's Meadow provided ten acres of excellent pasture, and the owners of two or three hard-worked horses were glad to pay three shillings a week for the privilege of turning them into it. One of these men came to Mr. Batchel on the morning which followed the conversation at the club. "I'm in a bit of a quandary about Tom Richpin," he began. This was an opening that did not fail to command Mr. Batchel's attention. "What is it?" he said. "I had my mare in Frenchman's Meadow," replied the man, "and Sam Bower come and told me last night as he heard her gallopin' about when he was walking this side the hedge." "But what about Richpin?" said Mr. Batchel. "Let me come to it," said the other. "My mare hasn't got no wind to gallop, so I up and went to see to her, and there she was sure enough, like a wild thing, and Tom Richpin walking across the meadow." "Was he chasing her?" asked Mr. Batchel, who felt the absurdity of the question as he put it. "He was not," said the man, "but what he could have been doin' to put the mare into that state, I can't think." "What was he doing when you saw him?" asked Mr. Batchel. "He was walking along looking for something he'd dropped, with his trousers all tore to ribbons, and while I was catchin' the mare, he made off." "He was easy enough to find, I suppose?" said Mr. Batchel. "That's the quandary I was put in," said the man. "I took the mare home and gave her to my lad, and straight I went to Richpin's, and found Tom havin' his supper, with his trousers as good as new." "You'd made a mistake," said Mr. Batchel. "But how come the mare to make it too?" said the other. "What did you say to Richpin?" asked Mr. Batchel. "Tom," I says, "when did you come in? 'Six o'clock,' he says, 'I bin mendin' my boots'; and there, sure enough, was the hobbin' iron by his chair, and him in his stockin'-feet. I don't know what to do." "Give the mare a rest," said Mr. Batchel, "and say no more about it." "I don't want to harm a pore creature like Richpin," said the man, "but a mare's a mare, especially where there's a family to bring up." The man consented, however, to abide by Mr. Batchel's advice, and the interview ended. The evenings just then were light, and both the man and his mare had seen something for which Mr. Batchel could not, at present, account. The worst way, however, of arriving at an explanation is to guess it. He was far too wise to let himself wander into the pleasant fields of conjecture, and had determined, even before the story of the mare had finished, upon the more prosaic path of investigation.