The Flying Inn | Page 9

of shooting suit with gaiters. Indeed, he was
engaged at the moment in cleaning and reloading a double-barrelled
gun, a short but powerful weapon which he had invented, or at least
improved, himself; and which, though eccentric enough as compared
with latest scientific arms, was neither clumsy nor necessarily out of
date. For Pump was one of those handy men who seem to have a
hundred hands like Briareus; he made nearly everything for himself and
everything in his house was slightly different from the same thing in
anyone else's house. He was also as cunning as Pan or a poacher in
everything affecting every bird or dish, every leaf or berry in the woods.
His mind was a rich soil of subconscious memories and traditions; and
he had a curious kind of gossip so allusive as to almost amount to
reticence; for he always took it for granted that everyone knew his
county and its tales as intimately as he did; so he would mention the
most mysterious and amazing things without relaxing a muscle on his
face, which seemed to be made of knotted wood. His dark brown hair
ended in two rudimentary side whiskers, giving him a slightly horsy
look, but in the old-fashioned sportsman's style. His smile was rather
wry and crabbed; but his brown eyes were kindly and soft. He was very
English.
As a rule his movements, though quick, were cool; but on this occasion
he put down the gun on the table outside the inn in a rather hurried
manner and came forward dusting his hands in an unusual degree of
animation and even defiance. Beyond the goblin green apple trees and
against the sea had appeared the tall, slight figure of a girl, in a dress
about the colour of copper and a large shady hat. Under the hat her face
was grave and beautiful though rather swarthy. She shook hands with
Mr. Pump; then he very ceremoniously put a chair for her and called
her "Lady Joan."
"I thought I would like a look at the old place," she said. "We have had
some happy times here when we were boys and girls. I suppose you
hardly see any of your old friends now."
"Very little," answered Pump, rubbing his short whisker reflectively.

"Lord Ivywood's become quite a Methody parson, you know, since he
took the place; he's pulling down beer-shops right and left. And Mr.
Charles was sent to Australia for lying down flat at the funeral. Pretty
stiff I call it; but the old lady was a terror."
"Do you ever hear," asked Lady Joan Brett, carelessly, "of that
Irishman, Captain Dalroy?"
"Yes, more often than from the rest," answered the innkeeper. "He
seems to have done wonders in this Greek business. Ah! He was a sad
loss to the Navy!"
"They insulted his country," said the girl, looking at the sea with a
heightened colour. "After all, Ireland was his country; and he had a
right to resent it being spoken of like that."
"And when they found he'd painted him green," went on Mr. Pump.
"Painted him what?" asked Lady Joan.
"Painted Captain Dawson green," continued Mr. Pump in colourless
tones. "Captain Dawson said green was the colour of Irish traitors, so
Dalroy painted him green. It was a great temptation, no doubt, with this
fence being painted at the time and the pail of stuff there; but, of course,
it had a very prejudicial effect on his professional career."
"What an extraordinary story!" said the staring Lady Joan, breaking
into a rather joyless laugh. "It must go down among your county
legends. I never heard that version before. Why, it might be the origin
of the 'Green Man' over there by the town."
"Oh, no," said Pump, simply, "that's been there since before Waterloo
times. Poor old Noyle had it until they put him away. You remember
old Noyle, Lady Joan. Still alive, I hear, and still writing love-letters to
Queen Victoria. Only of course they aren't posted now."
"Have you heard from your Irish friend lately?" asked the girl, keeping
a steady eye on the sky-line.

"Yes, I had a letter last week," answered the innkeeper. "It seems not
impossible that he may return to England. He's been acting for one of
these Greek places, and the negotiations seem to be concluded. It's a
queer thing that his lordship himself was the English minister in charge
of them."
"You mean Lord Ivywood," said Lady Joan, rather coldly. "Yes, he has
a great career before him, evidently."
"I wish he hadn't got his knife into us so much," chuckled Pump. "I
don't believe there'll be an inn left in England. But the Ivywoods were
always cranky. It's only fair to him to remember his grandfather."
"I think it's