"How did Miss Horne and Miss Hobart come here?" Sylvia asked.
"Advertisement. They lived somewhere near London, I believe; came into a bit of money, I've heard, and thought they'd settle in the country. I give them a morning a week on Wednesdays. The man they bought it off had been a tax-collector somewhere in the West Indies. He swindled them properly, but they were sorry for him because he had a floating kidney--floating in alcohol, I should think, by the amount he drank. But they won't hear a word against him even now. He's living in Galton and they send him cabbages every week, which he gives to his rabbits when he's sober and throws at his housekeeper when he's drunk. Sunny Bank! I'm glad it's not my Bank. As I jokingly said to my missus, I should soon be stony-broke. Ah, well, there's all sorts here and that's a fact," Mr. Pluepott continued, with a pensive flick at his pony. "That man over there, for instance." He pointed with his whip through the gathering darkness to a particularly small tin cottage. "He used to play the trombone in a theater till he played his inside out; now he thinks he's going to make a fortune growing early tomatoes for Covent Garden market. You get him with a pencil in his hand of an evening and you'd think about borrowing money from him next year; but when you see him next morning trying to cover a five-by-four packing-case with a broken sash-light, you'd be more afraid of his trying to borrow from you."
With such conversation did Mr. Pluepott beguile the way to Medworth; and when he heard that Sylvia intended to walk in the dusk to Green Lanes he insisted on driving her the extra two miles.
"The hives won't fly away," he said, cheerfully, "and I like to make a good job of a thing. Well, now you've found your way to Oaktown, I hope you'll visit us again. Mrs. Pluepott will be very glad to see you drop in for a cup of tea any day, and if you've got any comical reading-matter, she'd be glad to borrow from you; for her chest does make her very melancholy, and, being accustomed to having me always about the house when I was cobbling, she doesn't seem to get used to being alone. Only the other day she said if she'd known I was going to turn into a Buffalo Bill she'd rather have stayed in Bedford. 'Land for the Millions!' she said, 'I reckon you'd call it Land for the Million, if you had to sweep the house clean of the mud you bring into it.' Well, good night to you. Very glad I was able to oblige, I'm sure."