"Will you come ashore and have a look at Pitcher and the two brutes?" said Dick.
"What do you say, Ben? Shall we?" asked Picton.
Ben knew he wished to go—Rita was at Torwood—it was not the horses so much, although they were an attraction.
"Yes," said Ben promptly, and the matter was settled.
They went ashore. Dick Langford's dog-cart was at the Queen's and thither they adjourned. In a quarter of an hour they were going at an easy pace to Torwood, which lay about midway between Torquay and Newton Abbot.
How fresh everything looked! The trees were just budding, tingeing the almost bare branches with tips of green. The air was cool and soft; there were no motors about—only an odd one or two, the tourist season had not commenced—but there would be plenty of people at the races on the following days.
"Wonder what that fellow's up to!" exclaimed Dick, as he saw a man push through the hedge and disappear down the hill and across the meadow.
"Probably belongs to the place," said Picton.
"Then what the deuce did he get through the hedge for? Why didn't he go to the gate?" said Dick.
"Short cut, perhaps," said Picton.