"A good horse, as you say; but he won't carry beer," explained Jarratt Weekes. "Not that I ever want him to do so; but he's always nervous of the dark. Old farmer Routleigh used to have him; then, coming home market-merry from Okehampton, he got into trouble and was left in the hedge. I like the horse very well, but he's barely up to my weight. He'd suit Woodrow exactly, I should judge."
"I'll mention the matter to him."
"Thank you, Brendon. Brendon was it you said, or Brandon?"
"Brendon's my name."
"Lucky I met you, then, for I've wanted to have a say with you for some time."
Daniel did not answer.
"Look here, now—between men there need be no beating about the bush. That's women's way. And a woman I want to talk about. In Lydford they are mentioning the name of a Daniel Brendon with that of Miss Friend, who lives up here for the present at Dunnagoat Cottage with her father."
The other's face hardened, and a heavy look came into his eyes; but he did not speak.
"That's not as it should be," continued Jarratt Weekes. "It gets about, and then there's wrong ideas in the air. Living up here, the girl can't hear it or contradict it. But 'tis a very unmaidenly thing for her to be talked over like that, and, frankly, I don't much like it, Brendon."
Still Daniel preserved silence. His heart was beating hard; he felt anger running in his veins and his jaws fastening on each other. But he made no answer. Instead he stopped, slowly drew his pipe and a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and prepared to smoke.