alkin' now, and I
says to him: 'What we want's more money put into drains on the courses.
Look at them mucky farmers they way they drains their land,' said I,
'and look at us runnin' hosses and layin' our bets and let down, hosses
and backers and all, for want of the courses bein' looked after proper.'"

He tapped the dottle out of his pipe, picked up the bundle, and rose
grumbling.

Then he led the way in the direction of Northbourne.

It was a little after three o'clock now, and the day was sultry. Jones,
despite his other troubles, was vastly interested in his companion. The
height of Rochester's position had never appeared truly till shown him
by the farmer and this tramp. They knew him. To them, without any doubt,
the philosophers and poets of the world were unknown, but they knew the
Earl of Rochester, and not unfavourably.

Millions upon millions of the English world were equally acquainted with
his lordship, he was most evidently a National figure. His
unconventionality, his "larks," his lavishness, and his horse racing
propensities, however they might pain his family, would be meat to the
legions who loved a lord, who loved a bet, who loved a horse, and a
picturesque spendthrift.

To be Rochester was not only to be a lord, it was more than that. It was
to be famous, a national character, whose picture was printed on the
retina of the million. Never had Jones felt more inclined to stick to
his position than now, with the hounds on his traces, a tramp for his
companion, and darkness ahead. He felt that if he could once get to
London, once lay his hands on that eight thousand pounds lying in the
National Provincial Bank, he could fight. Fight for freedom, get lawyers
to help him, and retain his phantom coronet.

He had ceased to fear madness; all that dread of losing himself had
vanished, at least for the moment. Hoover had cured him.

Meanwhile they talked as they went, the tramp laying down the law as to
rights over commons and waste lands, seeming absolutely to forget that
he was talking to, or supposed to be talking to, a landed proprietor. At
last they reached the white ribbon that runs over the cliffs from
Sandbourne to Northbourne and beyond.

"Here's the road," said the tramp, "and I'll be takin' leave of your
lor'ship. I'll take it easy for a bit amongst them bushes, there's no
call for me to hurry. I shawnt forget meetin' your lor'ship. Blimy if I
will. Me sittin' there under that hedge an' thin