me. I am sorry for him. He dodged me today,"

"Do you mean to say"--she became animated--"that you have been
out in the wet keeping the sheep of Flea Thompson?"

"I had to." He blew on his fingers and took off his cap. Water
trickled over his unshaven cheeks. His hair was so wet that it
seemed worked upon his scalp in bronze.

"Get away, bad dog!" screamed the lady, for he had given himself
a shake and spattered her dress with water. He was a powerful boy
of twenty, admirably muscular, but rather too broad for his
height. People called him "Podge" until they were dissuaded. Then
they called him "Stephen" or "Mr. Wonham." Then he said, "You can
call me Podge if you like."

"As for Flea--!" he began tempestuously. He sat down by her, and
with much heavy breathing told the story,--"Flea has a girl at
Wintersbridge, and I had to go with his sheep while he went to
see her. Two hours. We agreed. Half an hour to go, an hour to
kiss his girl, and half an hour back--and he had my bike. Four
hours! Four hours and seven minutes I was on the Rings, with a
fool of a dog, and sheep doing all they knew to get the turnips."

"My farm is a mystery to me," said the lady, stroking her
fingers.

"Some day you must really take me to see it. It must be like a
Gilbert and Sullivan opera, with a chorus of agitated employers.
How is it that I have escaped? Why have I never been summoned to