he had been leisurely smoking
and enjoying the warmth.

"'Ad quite a pleasant little snooze, Tippy," he yawned, as he
stretched his arms behind his head. "Wonder who first thought o'
ridin' on an 'orse's back," he yawned. "As for me, I'd jest as soon
ride on an 'and-saw."

They jogged along in the direction of Merton, Bindle walking beside
the horses, Tippitt silent and apathetic, his cigarette still attached
to his lower lip.

"You ain't wot I should call a chatty cove, Tippy," remarked Bindle
conversationally; "but then," he added, "that 'as its points. If you
don't open your mouth, no woman can't say you ever asked 'er to marry
you, can she?"

"Married, mate!" Tippitt vouchsafed the information without expression
or interest.

Bindle stood still and looked at him.

Tippitt unconcernedly continued on his way.

"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Bindle, as he continued after the horses.
"Well, I'm damned! They'd get you if you was deaf an' dumb an' blind.
Pore ole Tippy! no wonder 'e looks like that."

Just outside Merton they came upon a stranded pantechnicon. Drawn up
in front of it was a motor-car containing two ladies.

"This the little lot?" enquired Bindle as they pulled up beside the
vehicle, which bore the name of John Smith & Company, Merton.

"Are you from Empson & Daleys?" enquired the elder of the two ladies,
a sallow-faced, angular woman with pince-nez.

"That's us, mum," responded Bindle.

"I suppose those are the horses," remarked the same lady, indicating
the animals with an inclination of her head.

"You ain't got much to learn in the way o' guessing, mum," was
Bindle's cheery response.

The lady eyed him disapprovingly. Her companion at the wheel smiled.
She was younger. Bindle winked at her; but she froze instantly.

"The horses that were in this van were taken ill," said the lady.

"Wot, both together, mum!" exclaimed Bindle.

"Yes," replied the lady, looking at him sharply.

"Must 'ave been twins or conchies,"[1] was Bindle's explanation of the
phenomenon. "If one o' Ginger's twins 'as the measles, sure as eggs
the other'll get 'em the next day. That's wot makes Ginger so ratty."

[1] Conscientious objectors to military service.

Bindle walked up to the van and examined it, as if to assure himself
that it was in no way defective.

"An' where are we to take it, mum?" he enquired.

"To Mr. Llewellyn John, Number 110, Downing Street," was the reply.

Bindle whistled. "'E a