Simon had been that day all alone to see Mrs. Fisher-Fisher's roses; he said so at dinner that night. He had remembered the general invitation and had taken it, evidently, as a personal one. Bobby did not enquire details; besides, his mind was occupied at that dinner-table, where Cerise was constantly seeking his glance and where Julia sat watching. Brooding and watching and talking chiefly to Simon.

She and Simon seemed to get on well together, and a close observer might have fancied that Simon was attracted, perhaps less by her charms than by the fact that he considered her Bobby's girl and was making to cut Bobby out, in a mild way, by his own superior attractions.

After dinner Simon forgot her. He had other business on hand. He had not dressed for dinner, he was simply and elegantly attired in the blue serge suit he had worn in London. Taking his straw hat and lighting a cigar, he left the others and, having strolled round the garden for a few minutes, left the hotel premises and strolled down the street.

The street was deserted. He reached the Bricklayer's Arms, and, having admired the view for a while from the porch of that hostelry, strolled into the bar.

The love of low company, which is sometimes a distinguishing feature of the youthful, comes from several causes: a taste for dubious sport, a kicking against restraint, simply the love of low company, or a kind of megalomania—a wish to be first person in the company present, a wish easily satisfied at the cost of a few pounds.

In Simon's case it was probably a compound of the lot.

In the bar of the Bricklayer's Arms he was first person by a mile; and this evening, owing to hay-harvest work, he was first by twenty miles, for the only occupant of the bar was Dick Horn.

Horn, as before hinted by Mudd, was a very dubious character. In old days he would have been a poacher pure and simple, to-day he was that and other things as well. Socialism had touched him. He desired, not only other men's game and fish, but their houses and furniture.

He was six feet two, very thin, with lantern jaws, and a dark look suggestive of Romany antecedents—a most fascinating individual to the philosopher, the police, and those members of the public of artistic leanings. He was seated smoking and in company of a brown mug of beer when Simon came in.

They gave each other good evening, Simon rapped with a half-crown on the counter, ordered some beer for himself, had Horn's mug replenished, and then sat down. The landlord, having served them, left them together, and they fell into talk on the weather.

"Yes," said Horn, "it's fine enough for them that like it, weather's no account to me. I'm used to weather."

"So am I," said Simon.

"Gentlefolk don't know what weather is," said Horn; "they can take it or leave it. It's the pore that knows what weather is."

They agreed on this point.

After a while Horn got up, craned his head round the bar partition to see that no one was listening, and sat down again.

"You remember what I said to you about them night lines?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going to set some to-night down in the river below."

"By Jove!" said Simon, vastly interested.

"If you're wanting to see a bit of sport maybe you'd like to jine me?" said Horn.

For a moment Simon held back, playing with this idea, then he succumbed.

"I'm with you," said he.

"The keeper's away at Ditchin'ham that minds this bit of the stream," said Horn. "Not that it matters, for he ain't no good, and the constable's no more than a blind horse. He's away, so we'll have the place proper to ourselves, and you said you was anxious to see how night linin' was done. Well, you'll see it, if you come along with me. Mind you, it's not every gentleman I'd take on a job like this, but you're different. Mind you, they'd call this poachin', some of them blistered magistrits, and I'm takin' a risk lettin' you into it."

"I'll say nothing," said Simon.

"It's a risk all the same," said Horn.

"I'll pay you," said Simon.

"'Aff a quid?"

"Yes, here it is. What time do you start?"

"Not for two hours," said Horn. "My bit of a place is below hill there. Y'know the Ditchin'ham road?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's that shack down there on the right of the road before it jines the village. I've got the lines there and all. You walk down there in two hours' time and you'll find me at the gate."

"I'll come," said Simon.

Then these two worthies parted; Horn wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, saying he had to see a man about some ferrets, Simon walking back to the hotel.