Prudence began dusting again as Fishpingle came into the room. He was a slightly older man than the squire and bore his years less lightly. He was something of the Squire’s build, a fine figure of a man—so the women said—and he bore upon a thinner, more refined face, the same look of authority. As soon as he saw his master he smiled delightfully. Sir Geoffrey growled out:
“You ought to be a policeman, Ben.”
“A policeman, Sir Geoffrey?”
“You’re never about when you’re most particularly wanted. Have you looked at the mare?”
Fishpingle answered easily with the respectful assurance of an old servant who had gone rabbiting with his master when they were boys together.
“You won’t ride her again this season, Sir Geoffrey. She never was quite up to your weight, and this spring hunting on hard ground is cruel work on the hocks. She’ll have to be fired, the pretty dear.”
“Turn her out into the water-meadows.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And now, pray tell me, what is the meaning of—that?”
He indicated the tankard. Fishpingle smiled.