“Master Tom,” said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air, “all your things is just as you left them. A bit of airing before the fire an’ they’ll be all right. ’Twill be a bit of a distraction like, a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen. You’ll find the folk around here has hard and bitter minds towards you. They hasn’t forgotten nor forgiven. No one’ll come nigh you, so you’d best get what distraction you can with horse and dog. They’m good company, too.”

Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feeling more than ever like one in a dream, went upstairs to inspect “Master Tom’s” wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearest to his heart, and there was some protection against immediate discovery of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom’s aforetime companions were likely to favour him with a close inspection. As the interloper thrust himself into some tolerably well-fitting riding cords he wondered vaguely what manner of misdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set the whole countryside against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cut short his speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to the side door.