He had driven only a few yards when his wife looked at him with a smile.
"Was it a very great self-denial, Harry?"
"Since you ask the question, I'm afraid it was," laughed Farquhar.
"Then I won't mind very much if you get down and see that they don't impose on Mavy—I mean too many of them. I don't want him to get hurt if it can be prevented."
Farquhar swung himself over the side of the wagon.
"It's hardly probable. The boys like Mavy, but, as Sergeant has one or two toughs among the crowd, I'll go along."
Mrs. Farquhar smiled at Alison as she drove on.
"One mustn't expect too much," she said. "After all, if he comes home with a swollen face it will be in a good cause."
Alison made no comment. She was slightly disgusted, and her pride was somewhat hurt. She had made a friend of this man, perhaps, she thought, too readily, and the fact that he had laid himself out to amuse the crowd and had, as the result of it, been drawn into a discreditable brawl was far from pleasant. She was compelled to confess on reflection that he could not very well have avoided the latter, but it was equally clear that he had not even attempted it. Indeed, she had noticed that he jumped down from his wagon with a suspicious alacrity.
Half an hour later a fast team overtook them and Farquhar alighted from a two-seated vehicle. He smiled at his wife as he sat down beside her.