Harry stared, and then he swallowed the camel at a gulp, bursting out into a laugh on his own account as he accomplished the feat. ‘All right, old fellow,’ he took it upon him to assure Oliver; ‘I grow the corn and you complete the process, not merely by grinding it, but by going a step farther and converting it into food for man as well as for beast—why should the service to the beast be regarded as more honourable than that to the man? As well keep a shop here as a store in Adelaide or Victoria. Look here, Constable, invite us in and give us a tip of tarts.’ ‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘my customers are the genuine article, and pay for what they get—all save an exceptional small maid or man in rags, who may be caught looking hungrily in at the windows. Your coats are as good as mine, and I’ll swear you’ve had an excellent breakfast on kidneys or mutton chops sufficient to spoil your youthful appetite for tarts for some hours to come. But I’ll send one of my carts, in its rounds, to call at the Farm and supply you with bread, if you like to give me the order.’ ‘And he expects us to say we are obliged to him for proposing to furnish us with his goods on his own terms, and on short credit, no doubt! We’ll see him hanged first, Horry. Is there any other baker in the town, less of a wretched screw, that we can favour with our custom? though of course we shan’t trust your report. I’ll tell you what, Constable, we’ll run handicaps—my corn against your bread.’ ‘You had better grow your crop first.’ ‘Oh! never fear.’ Oliver could not help being amused by Harry Stanhope’s manner of taking the discovery. The older man was touched a little, too, by the lad’s staunchness to his new colours, his honest if spasmodic efforts to accommodate himself to a changed order of things, in direct opposition to every standard and watchword of the past, and to all the traditions of his youth.