"Hosses is Grudgers', an' t' lass is mine," interrupted Dick, smiling.
"But there be Parson Mallaby to make we mind our manners," objected Redface.
"T' cloth," said Dick, "is a good thing. And blood's a better," and so marched his daughter to the front of the brake.
As the last of the team were climbing to their seats, a motor-cycle with a side-car, coming from the north, pulled up behind them.
"Don't turn your head," whispered Dick on the box to Amaryllis beside him. "They'll pass us soon, if they're Melchard's men. I had to yank you up here, you little devil, or you'd have cooked the whole show by laughing. You were shaking like a jelly, and they thought you were afraid of me. You! With your 'Naays' and your 'Thank 'ee kindlys!'"
A tall man in motor-cycling overalls, goggles pushed up over his cap, sauntered leisurely past the brake from behind, on its off side. From the near-side box-seat Amaryllis saw him, and then looked down at the splash-board, shaking her head.
"Nay, daddy, na-ay!" she said in a clear drawl, imitating Dick's. "Always feared, Ah be, o' talkin', when there's a many men makin' simple jests. That were a gradely word o' yourn, 'Cloth be a fine thing, but blood's a better!'"
And she finished with a low, cooing chuckle.
Then, loud and clear, came the parson's voice.
"You can let 'em go now, Mr. Bunce," he said.