Wolf prodded the cart-track with his stick, and, unseen by his companion, pulled down the corners of his mouth and worked the muscles of his under-jaw.

“Whom are you playing against?” enquired Wolf in a politely negligent tone.

The man gave him a quick glance.

“Hope ’tis no offense to name the party, Sir, but I be playing against your Missus’s Dad.”

“Against Mr. Torp?” cried Wolf, feeling that the situation in front of him was growing thicker with discomfort every moment.

“None other, Sir. The old gentleman be the best hand at bowls, when ’ee be sober, if I may say so, that they have anywhere down these ways. I learned the game myself”⁠—these last words were spoken with extraordinary impressiveness⁠—“in the Shires.”