young man leading his pony on the foot-track at her side should think
her a baby and over-keen.

Once only he spoke to her, and that clearly with the difficulty of the
shy.

"What shall you cuc-call her?" he asked.

"I don't know," she answered.

She longed to help him, but when the chance came she could only snub
him. That was always the way with Boy, when she was in touch with
somebody she liked.

Old Mat came unconsciously to the rescue.

"Why, Four Pound, o' course," he panted, labouring up the hill, his
hands on his knees.

"Is she Black Death blood?" asked the young man.

"Yes, she's Black Death all right," answered the old man. "That's the
old Pocahontas strain. Jumpers to a gee. You know. Look at them gray
hairs at the root of her tail--and that lazy, too! sluttin' along with
her nose out and her tongue a-waggin'. They're all like that, Black
Deaths are. If you was to let off a bomb under her belly, she wouldn't
so much as switch her tail. Couldn't be bothered. Constitutions like
hoxes, too." He paused to pant. "If what that feller said was O.K., why
then she's worth money, too. Only o' course it ain't. Else he wouldn't
ha' said it."