Lob Torp scrutinized the two cards with a disappointed eye. “They ain’t Three Castles,” he said sadly. “Them others bain’t as pretty as they Three Castles be.” He meditated for a moment, with his hands in his pockets. “Say, Mister,” he began eagerly, with radiant eyes. “Tell ’ee what I’ll do for ’ee. I’ll sell ’ee the photo of Sis what I be taking down to Bob Weevil’s. He were a-going to gie I summat for’n, but like enough it’ll be worth more to a gent like yourself. Come now, mister, gie I a sixpence and I’ll gie ’ee the picture and say nought to Bob.”

The ingratiating smile with which Lob uttered these words would have been worthy of an Algerian street arab. Wolf made a humorous grimace at him, under the mask of which he hid annoyance, uneasiness, curiosity.

The boy continued: “ ’Tis a wonderful pretty picture, Mister. I tooked it me own self. She be ridin’ astride one of them wold tombstones in Dad’s yard, just the same as ’twere a girt ’oss.”