“Mr. Dangle!” cried Mrs. Milton, clasping her hands. “Hullo!” said Dangle, not surprised in the slightest. “Glad you’ve come. I may want you. Bit of a mess I’m in—eigh? But I’ve caught ’em. At the very place I expected, too.” “Caught them!” said Widgery. “Where are they?” “Up there,” he said, with a backward motion of his head. “About a mile up the hill. I left ’em. I _had_ to.” “I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Milton, with that rapt, painful look again. “Have you found Jessie?” “I have. I wish I could wash the gravel out of my hands somewhere. It was like this, you know. Came on them suddenly round a corner. Horse shied at the bicycles. They were sitting by the roadside botanising flowers. I just had time to shout, ‘Jessie Milton, we’ve been looking for you,’ and then that confounded brute bolted. I didn’t dare turn round. I had all my work to do to save myself being turned over, as it was—so long as I did, I mean. I just shouted, ‘Return to your friends. All will be forgiven.’ And off I came, clatter, clatter. Whether they heard—” “_Take me to her_,” said Mrs. Milton, with intensity, turning towards Widgery. “Certainly,” said Widgery, suddenly becoming active. “How far is it, Dangle?” “Mile and a half or two miles. I was determined to find them, you know. I say though—Look at my hands! But I beg your pardon, Mrs. Milton.” He turned to Phipps. “Phipps, I say, where shall I wash the gravel out? And have a look at my knee?” “There’s the station,” said Phipps, becoming helpful. Dangle made a step, and a damaged knee became evident. “Take my arm,” said Phipps. “Where can we get a conveyance?” asked Widgery of two small boys. The two small boys failed to understand. They looked at one another. “There’s not a cab, not a go-cart, in sight,” said Widgery. “It’s a case of a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.” “There’s a harse all right,” said one of the small boys with a movement of the head. “Don’t you know where we can hire traps?” asked Widgery. “Or a cart or—anything?” asked Mrs. Milton. “John Ooker’s gart a cart, but no one can’t ’ire’n,” said the larger of the small boys, partially averting his face and staring down the road and making a song of it. “And so’s my feyther, for’s leg us broke.” “Not a cart even! Evidently. What shall we do?” It occurred to Mrs. Milton that if Widgery was the man for courtly devotion, Dangle was infinitely readier of resource. “I suppose—” she said, timidly. “Perhaps if you were to ask Mr. Dangle—” And then all the gilt came off Widgery. He answered quite rudely. “Confound Dangle! Hasn’t he messed us up enough? He must needs drive after them in a trap to tell them we’re coming, and now you want me to ask him—”