better be dead, too, my old friend--so he can't tell no tales and deny
no stories." He elaborated his idea with glee, clapping his sides with
his elbows. "Yes, that's about it. I bought her in at the sale of the
effects of an old friend o' mine, South of Ireland--to help his widie.
That's got it. Good idee. Very good idee. Charity _and_ business--what
they like. Micky Mahon, his name was. Died o'--I must have it all pat on
the tongue. What _did_ he die of, Brand? You're an artful little feller,
settin' there so smug and secret like a hen crocodile a-hatchin' h'out
h'its h'egg."

"Lung-trouble's best, sir," replied the little jockey gravely. "I reck'n
you can't go far with lung-trouble. See, we all dies o' shortness o'
breath in the latter end. That _is_ lung-trouble in a manner o'
speakin'."

"Lung-trouble's good," said the old man. "Vairy good. You're a good
little lad, Brand. You help me in my hour o' need...."

"Father!" came the stern voice from the back seat.

The old man began to flap with his elbows.

"There she goes, givin' tongue! Is that you, Miss?" he called, in his
half-humorous whimper. "You wasn't meant to hear that. Your ears is
altogether _too_ long--like that young Lollypop hoss o' mine."

They swung away off the crest of the Downs and began to drop down the
slope into the village of Cuckmere lying beneath them in the valley
among trees.