We all welcomed this novel way of clearing out our cupboards, except Cranch who, after a moment, and with a whimsical wrinkling of his brows, said: “But I haven’t got any old rubbish.”
“Oh, well, children’s cast-off toys for instance,” a newcomer threw out at random.
There was a general smile, to which Cranch responded with one of his rare expressive gestures, as who should say: “Toys—in my house? But whose?”
I laughed, and one of the ladies, remembering our old joke, cried out: “Why, but the hobby-horse!”
Cranch’s face became a well-bred blank. Long-suffering courtesy was the note of the voice in which he echoed: “Hobby-horse—?”
“Don’t you remember?” It was Mrs. Durant who prompted him. “Our old joke? The wonderful black and white hobby-horse that Miss Lucilla Selwick said she saw you driving home with when you first arrived here? It had a real mane.” Her colour rose a little as she spoke.
There was a moment’s pause, while Cranch’s brow remained puzzled; then a smile slowly cleared his face. “Of course!” he said. “I’d forgotten. Well, I feel now that I was young enough for toys thirty years ago; but I didn’t feel so then. And we should have to apply to Miss Selwick to know what became of that hobby-horse. Meanwhile,” he added, putting his hand in his pocket, “here’s a small offering to supply some new ones for the fair.”
The offering was not small: Cranch always gave liberally, yet always produced the impression of giving indifferently. Well, one couldn’t have it both ways; some of our most gushing givers were the least lavish. The committee was delighted....
“It was queer,” I said afterward to Mrs. Durant. “Why did the hobby-horse joke annoy Cranch? He used to like it.”
She smiled. “He may think it’s lasted long enough. Harpledon jokes do last, you know.”