Hugh lent the handkerchief—even offered to assist in the tying.
“I’d like to have given him a feed, poor old Trike,” said Max, “only—” and he looked [p57] regretfully around the garden—“you’ve no grass, have you?”
“I’ve no grass,” said Hugh; “but did you never try him on white daisies? It wouldn’t do, of course, to feed common horses on them, but a blood steed like yours, why, it would make his coat shine like varnish.”
Max’s eyes grew brilliant at the notion, and he rattled his charger up to a bank near, that was white with the flowers, and stuck the thing’s head into it and fed him with handfuls of petals.
“Why, why,” he shouted, “he’s getting shinier every minute—and his mane’s growing longer and longer.”
From that moment he regarded Hugh as a man and a brother.
But Lynn had got to business.
“No,” she said when offered a chair—“oh, no, thank you, we can’t stay—Miss Bibby doesn’t know we’ve come. But will you please deal with Larkin?”
“Deal with Larkin?” Hugh repeated.
“Yes, he’s Octavius Smith, not Septimus, and much better. Mamma deals with him, and his bacon is only elevenpence, and he’ll always bring your letters, too.”