you call exercise, not to _call_ it
exercise. Now is it?"

"Well, then," said Dickie, "let's get a move on us."

"Ah," said Mr. Beale, laying his pipe on his knee, "now you're talkin'.
Get a move on us. That's what I 'oped you'd say. 'Member what I says to
you in the winter-time that night Mr. Fuller looked in for his bit o'
rent--about me gettin' of the fidgets in my legs? An' I says, 'Why not
take to the road a bit, now and again?' an' you says, 'We'll see about
that, come summer.' And 'ere _is_ come summer. What if we was to take
the road a bit, mate--where there's room to stretch a chap's legs
without kickin' a dog or knockin' the crockery over? There's the ole
pram up-stairs in the back room as lively as ever she was--only wants a
little of paint to be fit for a dook, she does. An' 'ere's me, an'
'ere's you, an' 'ere's the pick of the dogs. Think of it, matey--the bed
with the green curtains, and the good smell of the herrings you toasts
yerself and the fire you makes outer sticks, and the little starses
a-comin' out and a-winkin' at you, and all so quiet, a-smokin' yer pipe
till it falls outer yer mouth with sleepiness, and no fear o' settin'
the counterpin afire. What you say, matey, eh?"

Dickie looked lovingly at the smart back of the little house--its crisp
white muslin blinds, its glimpses of neat curtains, its flowers; and
then another picture came to him--he saw the misty last light fainting
beyond the great shoulders of the downs, and the "little starses"
shining so bright and new through the branches of fir trees that
interlaced above, a sweet-scented bed of soft fallen brown pine-needles.

"What say, mate?" Mr. Beale repeated; and Dickie answered--

"Soon as ever you like's what I say. And what I say is, the sooner the
better."

Having made up his mind to go, Mr. Beale at once found a dozen reasons
why he could not leave home, and all the reasons were four-footed, and
wagged loving tails at him. He was anxious, in fact, about the dogs.
Could he really trust Amelia?

"Dunno oo you _can_ trust then," said Amelia, tossing a still handsome
head. "Anybody 'ud think the dogs was babbies, to hear you."

"So they are--to me--as precious as, anyway. Look here, you just come
and live 'ere, 'Melia--see? An' we'll give yer five bob a week. An' the
nipper 'e shall write it all down in lead-pencil on a bit o' paper for
you, what they're to 'ave to eat an' about their physic and which of
'em's to have what."