"What did he say, sir?"

"Not much," muttered the other. "Enough, though."

Monkey drooped his eyelids and tilted his chin. His face became a
masterpiece of secrecy and cunning.

Old Mat turned his lips inward.

"I've warned him off," he said, "you might snout about a bit and rout
out what he _is_ after."

The other nodded.

"Monkey's the man, sir," he said, and stole away on tip-toe.

* * * * *

That evening the old trainer, driving through the village, came on the
discomfited artist and drew up to have a word with him.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" began the old man in his sympathetic
wheeze. "This _is_ a bad job to be sure, Mr. Joses. So that long mare o'
mine had a shot at your pore brain-box. When I heard, I wep' a tear, I
did reelly." He shook a sorrowful head. "You mustn't come no more,
though, Mr. Joses, you mustn't. If anything was to 'appen to you in my
place I should never forgive meself. 'Tain't so much the compensation to
your widows and such. It's _here_"--he thumped his heart--"I'd feel it."

Joses began to make excuse, but the old man refused to be convinced.