The landlord rubbed his hands as, turning to a hole in the hedge, he saw his boy Dick go off at a canter, lying flat down on the back of a little Exmoor pony, his arms on each side of the pony’s neck, till he was over the nearest hill and descending into the valley, when he sat up and urged the pony on at as fast a gallop as the little beast could go.
“Nice promise of apples,” said the landlord, contentedly smiling up at the green clusters. “Now, if I could have my wish, I should like a splendid crop of fox-whelps and gennet-moyles. Then I should like peace. Lastly, I should like to see all the gentry who are fighting and cutting one another’s throats shake hands outside my door, and have a mug of my best cider. And all these wishes I wish I may get. There, now I’ll go in.”
He went slowly back to the house, puffing away at his pipe, and directly after encountered his red-faced daughter, who looked ruddier than ever as the old man looked at her searchingly, chuckling to himself the while. “I’ll give her such a scare,” he said.
“Want me, father?”
“Want you? Of course I do. Go and call Dick.”
“Dick, father?” she faltered.
“Yes; didn’t I speak plainly! Call Dick.”
“He’s—he’s out.”
“Who sent him out?”
“I—I did, father.”