"I wasn't jolly clever enough to go taking handfuls of money out of my
pocket, to make it seem cheap, anyway," she retorted. "I just found a
young man doing something to a horse's legs with a sponge and a pail.
And I held out one sovereign, and I said--'Do you know what this is?' He
said 'No,' and he'd call his father. And the old man came, and he said
it was a spade guinea; and he said was it my own to do as I liked with,
and I said 'Yes'; and I asked about the pony-cart, and I said he could
have the guinea if he'd drive us into Rochester. And his name is S.
Crispin. And he said, 'Right oh.'"

It was a new sensation to be driven in a smart pony-trap along pretty
country roads; it was very pleasant too (which is not always the case
with new sensations), quite apart from the beautiful plans of spending
the money which each child made as they went along, silently of course
and quite to itself, for they felt it would never have done to let the
old innkeeper hear them talk in the affluent sort of way in which they
were thinking. The old man put them down by the bridge at their request.

"If you were going to buy a carriage and horses, where would you go?"
asked Cyril, as if he were only asking for the sake of something to say.

"Billy Peasemarsh, at the Saracen's Head," said the old man promptly.
"Though all forbid I should recommend any man where it's a question of
horses, no more than I'd take anybody else's recommending if I was
a-buying one. But if your pa's thinking of a rig of any sort, there
ain't a straighter man in Rochester, nor civiller spoken, than Billy,
though I says it."

"Thank you," said Cyril. "The Saracen's Head."