Faith and Phoena invested in some baskets of doubtful durability, while Hubert made friends with a lame gipsy boy, from whom he bought a dozen washing pegs. These he thought, would make a suitable gift for Nellie, whom he had observed using these homely implements.
Whilst bargaining over the baskets, Phoena had kept a persistent look out for the traces of any waif or stray, who might be stowed away in one of the gaily painted vans, and was woefully disappointed to see none.
“You’re glad now, Gaston, that you came with us, aren’t you?” enquired Hubert as they sat down to tea.
“But yes, I am very glad,” was the cordial reply.
“Won’t Andrew and Di be sorry that they didn’t come,” said Phil, “when they hear all about it.”
“Rather,” said Jack, “I call it a stunning spree.”
“Yes, it is a very funny sort of place,” said Phoena, thoughtfully.
“I wish,” said Jack, “that their wretched horses were fatter.”
“Do you think that they’re werry hungry?” asked Hubert, pausing in the act of attacking a plum bun.
“That poor thing out there looks like it,” answered Phil, pointing to a miserable white skeleton of a pony, tethered by the roadside.
Hubert put down his cake and looked at Mrs. Busson.
“Anything wrong with the bun, my dear?” she asked.
“No,” answered Hubert, “but may I give it to the poor horse?”
Hubert was very fond of cake, but the thought of anything within his reach that was hungrier than himself, always quenched his appetite.
“Bless your dear heart!” cried Mrs. Busson, “that mouthful of bun wouldn’t do the poor thing any good.” Then noting Hubert’s look of disappointment, she added, “But look here, when you’ve finished your tea, you go out to Busson in the yard and tell him from me to ask the ostler for sixpennyworth of oats, and then Master Jack’ll go across the Green with you, and Master Phil too, I daresay, and help you to give them to the poor pony.”
Charmed with this delightful prospect, Hubert finished his tea, with equal enjoyment and alacrity, and then all the party arose from the table to assist in the feeding of the poor white starveling.
And perhaps this closing scene was the brightest moment in all that long bright summer afternoon.
“My word! won’t he enjoy himself!” cried Jack, who under Busson’s directions had presented the feast of oats in a pail of water. “I bet it’s the first time in your life, you’ve ever had such a blow out, you wretched specimen.”