"Taff knows the marsh," said I, for the sake of saying something.
"Famously," said Mr. Harrod. "He shows me the way everywhere. We are the best of friends."
I frowned. Was it an apology for having taken my dog?
"Taff will follow any one," I said, roughly.
It was not true, for Taff had never been known to follow any one before; and even as I said it, I wondered if Mr. Harrod were one of those whom "the beasts love," but he took no notice of my rudeness.
"What have you got there?" asked he, looking into my basket.
"Plovers' eggs," answered I. "There are lots on the marsh nearer the beach."
"Lapwings' eggs," corrected he, taking one in his hand.
"Oh no! plovers' eggs," insisted I. "They are sold as plovers' eggs in the shops in town as well as here."
"Yes," smiled he. "They are sold as plovers' eggs all over the London market also, but the lapwing—or the pewit, as you call it—lays them for all that. It is a bird of the plover family, but it should not properly be called a plover."