FOXY OINEY. 65 



Floyd came near her. She even tried to strike her 

 rider with her front feet. I walked away, as I did not 

 care to hear what Floyd had to say, and in a few 

 minutes the three men and the two horses started 

 down the road towards town. As they disappeared 

 around a corner I turned towards the clump of bushes 

 to see if my supposed corpse had come to life. In a 

 couple of minutes this individual, in a jaunty riding 

 cap, tweed jacket, riding trousers and a pair of top 

 boots, hopped over the fence and came towards me. 

 The merry twinkle in the foxy eyes which seemed to 

 flit about like a pair of fireflies under his shaggy brows, 

 assured me that there was nothing to fear, while the 

 smile on his wizened face told plainer than words that 

 he was in a very contented frame of mind. After 

 looking me over as if I were an exhibit at a fair, he re- 

 marked in a rather dry sort of a way, "Well, my boy, 

 did they gallop to suit you?" Not knowing what he 

 meant, I nodded and began to whistle. 



"No, don't do that," said the man in the jaunty cap. 

 "It is a bad sign. The wind always makes a noise in 

 a hollow tree. You are a bright slip of a boy, but I 

 don't know you. Where do you live?" 



I told him that I was a nephew of John Flynn's and 

 had arrived that day week on a visit. 



"Do they let you go in the house?" came back at 

 me as quick as a flash. 



"Yes," said I very slowly, as I recalled only too 

 vividly the complaints and hints that were made by 

 my aunt if I happened to make a mark on the floor or 

 a stain on the table cloth. You may not know it, but 

 a sensitive boy of twelve or fourteen notices such things 

 and by them makes up his mind as to whether he is 



