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Pucklehammer returned, carrying a bulging sack on his back.
    “I couldn’t get any buns,” he said, obviously disappointed that he was not going to be able to prove his point, “but I managed to get some stale bread.”
    They opened the sack and extracted two large brown loaves, Adrian held them out towards Rosy, not at all convinced that she would accept this somewhat worn largesse, but Rosy uttered a squeal of pleasure and engulfed both loaves, devouring them with a speed and enthusiasm that had to be seen to be believed.
    “There you are,” said Adrian, “that’s the feeding problem solved.” He tipped the rest of the bread out of the sack and Rosy fell to like a glutton.
    “My word,” said Mr. Pucklehammer admiringly, “you have made a difference to that trap.”
    “It was mainly Rosy’s work,” said Adrian.
    “Rosy?” asked Mr. Pucklehammer. “How d’you mean?”
    “Well, she helped me. She squirted water over it . . . we had it clean in half the time.”
    “Would you believe it!” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “I wonder if she knows any more tricks?”
    “I don’t think we ought to start her off on tricks now,” said Adrian hastily. “For one thing, I’d better go down to the bank and fix up about the money, hadn’t I?”
    “Right you are,” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “You leave Rosy and me here. We’ll be all right. I’ll paint the trap while you’re gone.”
    When Adrian returned to the yard some hours later, he was greeted by the sound of Mr. Pucklehammer’s voice raised in song, accompanied by a periodical friendly squeal from Rosy. He went into the yard and there he found Rosy lying down, with Mr. Pucklehammer leaning against her shoulder, singing a serenade in her left ear. They were both bedaubed with splashes of paint, and an empty basin with traces of froth at the bottom and a pint tankard told Adrian that Mr. Pucklehammer and Rosy had cemented their friendship in no uncertain manner. Rather to his surprise–considering the condition of the two workers–the trap looked magnificent Mr. Pucklehammer had obviously allowed all his latent artistic genius to come to the fore. The body of the trap was a bright clean daffodil yellow, and the shafts a brave scarlet. The spokes of the wheels had been cunningly picked out in blue and gold, and the whole thing shone like a jewel.
    “Hi, boy!” said Mr. Pucklehammer, straightening up unsteadily. “Just been having a little sing-song with Rosy . . . she likes a good song. What d’you think of the cart, eh?”
    “It’s wonderful,” said Adrian enthusiastically. “You’ve done it beautifully.”
    “Always thought I should’ve taken up art,” said Mr. Pucklehammer gloomily, but there’s not much call for it nowadays. Did you get the money?”
    “Yes, I got it,” said Adrian. “There were lots of papers and things to sign . . . that’s why I was so long.”
    “Well, if I were you,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, pulling out his watch and peering at it blearily, “I’d cut off home and break the news to that Dredge woman.”
    “Yes, I suppose I’d better,” sighed Adrian. “In the meantime don’t go and give Rosy too much to drink, will you? You know what my uncle said in his letter.”
    “A drop of beer,” said Mr. Pucklehammer severely, “never hurt no one.”
    Adrian stepped up to his vast, slumbering protégée and patted her domed head.
    “Good night, Rosy old girl,” he said.
    Rosy opened one small, mischievous eye and peered at him. She looked almost as though she was smiling, Adrian reflected, as if she knew what the plans for the next day were and thoroughly approved of them. She uttered a tiny squeak, dosed her eyes and went back to sleep, while Adrian left the yard and trudged down the road towards Mrs. Dredge.
    As he bad anticipated, Mrs. Dredge proved difficult about the whole thing. She was not at all satisfied with Adrian’s excuse of a dying uncle, and in her efforts to get to the bottom of this she muddied both