The Jacksons weren’t at all pleased when they found that they were to be used as mouthpieces. They protested plaintively when we stopped outside a post office and suggested that one of them might go in and ask for the names of any horsy people who lived in the neighbourhood.

  “But we couldn’t possibly,” said Robin, “we don’t know what to say.”

  “Supposing the postmaster is cross?” asked Patricia in terrified accents.

  “He can’t eat you,” Simon told them, “and anyway he’ll probably be very glad to help. Just say ‘Good morning, do you know any one round here who keeps horses?’”

  “Oh, we couldn’t,” said Patricia and Robin together.

  But in the end we persuaded them. We watched them approach the counter nervously, but we were too far away to hear what they said.

  At last they came back and Robin said, “Mr. Harris, the baker, Mr. Crimp the butcher; what was the milkman’s name, Pat? Can you remember?”

  “It began with an H,” said Patricia.

  “But are they really horsy?” asked Simon, “I mean, there’s not much point in going to see unhorsy butchers and bakers.”

  “Where do they live?” asked Gay.

  “Oh, we didn’t find out their addresses,” said Robin, “you never told us to.”

  “Didn’t you find out who the local M.F.H. was?” I asked, “or the riding schools and horse dealers’ addresses? They’re the sort of people we ought to see.”

  “What’s an M.F.H.?” asked Patricia.

  “A master of foxhounds, of course,” said Lucy in snubbing tones.

  “Mummy thinks that hunting’s cruel,” said Patricia, “and so do I.”

  “It’s not.” said Lucy. “I would much rather be killed by hounds than to have to gnaw my paw off in a trap or die slowly of starvation because some fool had tried to shoot me. Do you mean to say that you’d⁠—”

  “Oh, shut up, Lucy,” said Simon, interrupting her, “we haven’t got time to argue about that sort of thing now.”

  “Here,” said Adrian to Robin, “you’d better take my notebook and pencil—don’t suck it because I do—and write down the names and addresses of any M.F.H.s, riding school owners, horse dealers, blacksmiths and other horsy people the postmaster can think of.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” said Robin, “he’ll think it awfully odd; I mean, I’ve been in there once already.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter,” said Simon, “all the best people are peculiar.”

  “Go on,” said Lucy.

  Robin walked miserably into the post office and waited at the counter until someone else had been served. Then he started to ask the postmaster, but in the middle he suddenly rushed out, “Whose names and addresses was I to ask for?” he asked us.

  “Gosh,” said Simon in exasperation, “this wretched quarantine,” and, seizing Adrian’s notebook, he wrote down the sort of people whose names and addresses we wanted. Then we pushed Robin into the post office again.

  This time we did get some result. The postmaster, who had evidently been exasperated by Robin’s inefficiency too, had written in his florid handwriting the names and addresses of H. Bentick, Esq., M.F.H., and the Chestnut Tree Riding School. The Riding School was at Blissington which, our map told us, was three miles away, so we decided to go there first in preference to Leftonstoke Grange, which was seven and a half miles in the opposite direction.

  The road to Blissington was uphill nearly all the way; as the last lap became steeper, first the Jacksons and then I dismounted and led our bicycles. Simon and Gay also dismounted before the top but Lucy and Adrian went on and when we breasted the crest we saw them waiting impatiently beneath a sign saying, “Riding School.”

  “Do come on,” said Lucy, “you are slow. I don’t believe that Christabel cares a bit about finding Daydream.”

  “It’s no good tearing off at such a rate,” said Gay. “The Jacksons can’t keep up and they’re our mouthpieces.”

  “Oh, they are feeble,” said Lucy, “anyway they ought to hurry in the interests of kindness to animals.”

  “And you ought to go slowly in the interests of kindness to children,” said Simon.

  “Shut up,” said Gay, “here they are.”

  “Come on, Robin,” said Adrian, “another nice job for you.”

  “If the owner’s outside, we can speak to him,” I said, “Robin will never be able to describe what Daydream looks like.”

  The owner was cleaning tack in an untidy saddleroom—it looked rather like Underwood Farm after a show.

  “If we all say, ‘Good morning’ from out here, she’ll come to the door,” said Gay, “and that counts as open air.”

  “Good morning,” we all said at once.

  “Good morning,” replied the riding school owner, a weather-beaten woman, dressed drably in breeches and stockings, a dull brown coat and a beret. She looked at us hopefully—I suppose that she thought that we might be seven prospective pupils but she was doomed to disappointment.

  “We wondered whether you could help us?” said Simon. “We’re looking for a grey pony mare of 14.2 called Daydream. She was sold to someone down here at the end of January and we want to buy her back.”

  The riding school owner’s face fell. “A grey pony,” she said, “well, I’ve got two, but I’ve had one five years and the other about nine months so it doesn’t sound as though it could be either of them; though I would sell Crystal, but I expect you only want to buy the one you’re looking for.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that’s right, I don’t want any pony but Daydream.”

  “You don’t know of any one round here who’s bought a grey lately?” asked Gay, bringing the riding school person back to the point.

  “Let me see,” she said. “There are the Linklaters, but I think their pony’s a bit smaller than fourteen hands, and there’s Fellowes the butcher over at Drinkney Hill; he bought a grey five year old for his children, at least he said it was five, but I don’t know.”

  “We’d better look at them,” I said, “on the off chance.”

  “Can you give me the names and addresses, please?” asked Adrian producing his notebook.

  When he had written them down, I asked, “Do you know any horse dealers round here? I think that they’re the people to ask.”

  “Horse dealers,” said the riding school owner reflectively. “Now, let me see: there’s Higgs and there’s Branksome, they both have places in Lampton and do it as a sort of side line. The big people round here are the Grantleys, but I expect you’ve heard of them—they’re on the other side of Lampton, about ten miles from here.” Adrian took down the rest of the names and addresses and then, when we had thanked the helpful riding school owner, we mounted our bicycles and started on the long trek to Leftonstoke Grange.

  The Jacksons began to grumble about being tired and hungry long before we reached Leftonstoke and, as one can’t afford to antagonise one’s mouthpiece, we had to stop and have lunch. This made us reach Leftonstoke at a quarter past one which, as Gay and Simon said, would be a very tactless time to call on anybody. H. Bentick, Esq. would be so furious at being disturbed in the middle of his lunch that he would certainly refuse even to think about Daydream. The Jacksons said that it was a nice opportunity to sit down and rest, so we left them to guard the bicycles and set off to explore the village. It was very small and, when we had exhausted its possibilities, we walked on to look at some of the neighbouring farms. We found a lovely stableyard, apparently deserted, but we couldn’t see much of it as its tall double doors, set in a wall, were padlocked. I must admit that I was rather shocked when the Westlakes, after trying the lock, climbed over the gate with one accord.

  “ Gosh,” I said, “you’re not going in, are you?”

  “Yes, of course; why not?” said Simon, “she may be there.”

  “There’s no one about,” said Adrian, “and it’s quite easy, just put your foot on the latch.”

  Quaking inwardly I followed them. The stables were padlocked too, but we peeped in through the windows and we could see that they were lovely loose boxes, but quite empty. Adrian and Lucy explored the loft, which wasn’t locked up and then they were rather tiresome and wouldn’t come down, when the rest of us had searched everywhere and wanted to go. They laughed loudly and made such a noise that I expected an angry owner to appear at any moment and march us off to the police station. I was filled with relief when we were all safely out again and hurrying back to the Jacksons and the bicycles.

  “You have been ages,” grumbled Robin.

  “We thought you’d got lost and that we would have to tell the police,” said Patricia.

  “You ought to be jolly grateful that we let you have such a nice long rest,” said Adrian, “you’re always complaining that you’re tired.”

  “It’s ten to two now,” said Simon, “so I should think that our friend Bentick has even had time to drink his coffee.”

  “Let’s leave the bicycles here,” said Gay.

  “Yes,” said Robin eagerly, “we’ll stay and look after them.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” said Simon, “we’ve got to have a spokesman. What do you think the hunt subscribers will say if we give the M.F.H. measles?”

  “I don’t want to ask,” said Robin, “it’s Pat’s turn.”

  “No, no,” said Patricia, “I can’t; I know he’ll be cross.”

  “Oh, come on, Robin, don’t be so jolly wet,” said Adrian.

  “I’m not,” said Robin angrily.

  “Well, you are when you try to make Patricia do things that you’re afraid to,” said Lucy, “she’s much younger than you.”

  “Oh, all right then,” said Robin ungraciously. “I suppose I shall have to do it, but I’m sure you’ll never find your silly horse; she was probably made into sausages long ago.”

  “She’s not a silly horse,” I said angrily, “she’s a particularly good-looking, intelligent, well-educated pony.”

  Simon made a face at me before I could say anything else and I knew that he meant I wasn’t to quarrel with Robin or we wouldn’t have a spokesman. So I shut up and we all walked up the drive to the Grange looking slightly disagreeable. Simon rang the bell and then retreated from the porch so that he wouldn’t infect it.

  “What shall I say?” asked Robin.

  “Ask if you can see Mr. Bentick about a pony,” said Simon, “and then try to tempt him out here. You can explain about the measles. If he won’t come you’ll have to ask him about Daydream. You know her size and colour.” The bell was answered by a manservant in a white coat.

  “Yes,” he asked as Robin stood without saying anything.

  “We want to see Mr. Bentick, please,” said Simon from the drive.

  “What name, please,” asked the butler or whatever he was.

  “You’d better say Jackson,” said Simon. “We’re a mixed lot and he’s the only one who can go in, the rest of us are in quarantine for measles.”

  “Jackson,” said the manservant. “Very well, sir, I’ll ask,” and he disappeared into the house. In a few moments he returned and led the reluctant Robin inside.

  We all sat down on a seat close to the porch and prepared to wait patiently. However it soon became apparent that Robin was being interviewed in the room behind us and, as all the windows were open, we could hear perfectly. “Well, and what can I do for you?” asked a man’s voice, which we knew must be Mr. Bentick’s. Then we heard Robin; “Well, you see,” he said, “it’s not for me exactly, it’s for my cousins and a friend of theirs. It’s about a pony, only they can’t tell you because they’re afraid the hunt subscribers would be livid if they gave you measles.”

  “Oh, gosh,” said Simon. Adrian and Lucy began to giggle.

  “Silly idiot,” I said.

  “It’s most thoughtful of your friends and cousins to consider the feelings of my subscribers in this way,” said Mr. Bentick, “and I am quite sure that they will be very grateful. However I still fail to see how I can help you; I’m not a doctor, you know, I can’t cure measles.”

  “But they haven’t got measles,” said Robin, “they only might have them; that’s why they’re living in a caravan and looking for ponies instead of being at school.”

  “But what have I got to do with them?” asked Mr. Bentick impatiently. “Do they want somewhere to put the caravan?”

  “Oh, no,” said Robin, “they’ve got that in our paddock; Daddy didn’t like it much at first, but my mother said that it was only for a week and after all blood is thicker than water.”

  “Quite,” said Mr. Bentick, and there was an edge to his voice, “but may I point out that I am not in the least interested in your relations and that if you have nothing of more importance to say, I would be grateful if you would stop wasting my time.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Robin. “Pat told them that you’d be cross, but they wouldn’t take any notice.”

  “Well, Pat, whoever he may be, won’t be far wrong in a minute unless you hurry up and get out of my sight,” said Mr. Bentick in exasperated tones. Hearing this Simon leaped to his feet and picked his way across a flower bed to the window of the room where Robin was driving Mr. Bentick mad.

  As he opened the window we heard Robin say, “Pat’s not a he; she’s my sister.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Mr. Bentick, “either you’re mentally deficient, or I’m mad.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Simon in his politest manner, “but I’m afraid that my cousin is becoming a little involved.”

  “A little involved,” said Mr. Bentick in incredulous accents, “an understatement, I think, considering that he’s nearly driven me insane.”

  “I could explain it all, sir,” said Simon soothingly, “only we can’t come in unless you’ve had measles.”

  “Measles!” shouted Mr. Bentick. “Now don’t say that you’re going to start. Why should I have had measles?”

  “Well, most people have, except us,” said Simon, “that’s why we’re in quarantine, but, of course, we’re jolly pleased, as otherwise we’d be languishing at school.”

  “I wish you were, with all my heart,” said Mr. Bentick unkindly, “I wish that you were anywhere but here. And now that you’ve found that I haven’t had measles, what more do you want of me?”

  “Well, would you mind awfully coming out in the garden?” asked Simon. “You see if I go on talking to you like this you may catch it, but it’s quite all right in the open air.”

  “Oh, anything for a little peace and quiet,” said Mr. Bentick wearily, and in a few moments, he and Robin appeared in the garden.

  “Now,” said Mr. Bentick sternly, “what is it that you want?”

  “We’re looking for a grey pony mare of fourteen-two, called Daydream,” said Simon. “She was sold to someone in this neighbourhood at the beginning of January and we want to buy her back.”

  “Why in the dickens did you sell her in the first place then?” asked Mr. Bentick.

  Then, as he saw Gay and Simon look at each other doubtfully and me blush, he added, “Sorry, perhaps that wasn’t a very tactful question.”

  “Well,” said Simon, “it is rather an involved story.”

  “Then I don’t want to hear it,” said Mr. Bentick hastily. “I know what you mean by involved.”

  “What we thought,” said Gay, obviously trying to bring him back to the point, “was that, being an M.F.H. you would be able to tell us of dealers and anyone else who might have bought her.”

  “Have you tried Dick Grantley?” asked Mr. Bentick.

  “He’s the big dealer on the other side of Lampton, isn’t he?” asked Gay.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Bentick.

  “We had thought of trying him to-morrow,” said Gay, “but actually, we were told that Daydream had been sold to someone near Charle-on-Bidemoor and if one was describing where the Grantleys live surely one would say that it was near Lampton; I mean it’s much the bigger place.”

  “That’s true,” said Mr. Bentick. “Charle-on-Bidemoor. Hmm, that narrows things down a bit. Of course there’s Major Greenbanks, he mounts all his brats on greys with red browbands, but I haven’t heard that he’s bought any new ones lately.”

  “He might know something about her though,” said Simon. “He probably pays special attention to greys.”

  “Can you give me his name and address, please?” asked Adrian, producing his notebook and pencil.

  “It’s a good thing one of you tries to be efficient,” said Mr. Bentick, when he had told Adrian. Then he went on, “Of course there’s Mason. He lives between Charle-on-Bidemoor and Bishop’s Riddlewick and his grandchild took a toss off a nice grey pony that he couldn’t manage at the children’s meet.”

  “Can we have his address too, please?” asked Adrian.

  “Now you mind out,” said Mr. Bentick. “Mason’s a very peculiar customer. But I tell you what; I’ve got to see him sometime about hunt business and, if you like, I’ll go up in the next day or two and sound him about the grey at the same time. He’s got quite a wholesome respect for me so I’ll probably get more out of him than you will.”

  “It’s awfully kind of you,” said Simon, “but⁠—”

  “You see,” I said, as Simon didn’t seem able to explain, “we haven’t got much longer. The quarantine will end and then, if we haven’t got measles, we’ll have to go back to our foul schools. If we’re not to waste time I think that we really ought to see Mr. Mason to-day.”

  “Well, on your own heads be it,” said Mr. Bentick. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you. And, if he chucks you out or sets the dogs on you, give me a ring and I’ll try to find out something about her.”

  We all thanked him very much; he had been jolly decent especially considering how that idiot Robin had behaved, and then we said good-bye and walked down the drive to where our bicycles lay sullenly waiting for us in the ditch. No one reproached Robin for his stupidity and when both Jacksons began to grumble about being tired and hungry again, we promised them most kindly that we would only make one call on the way home—on Mr. Mason.