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millionaire?’
    Gussy didn’t understand. He took his change and put it into his pocket. Then he carried the ice-creams back to the car, and handed round one each, beaming all over his face.
    ‘Thanks, Gus,’ said Bill, accepting his. ‘But look here, old chap—you can’t carry all that money about with you, you know.’
    ‘I can,’ said Gussy. ‘All the term I had it here in my pocket. It is my pocket-money, I think. They said I could have pocket-money.’
    ‘Hm, yes. But a hundred pounds or so in notes is hardly pocket-money,’ began Bill. ‘Yes, yes—I know you kept it in your pocket, but real pocket-money is—is—oh, you explain, boys.’
    It proved to be very difficult to explain that all those pound notes were not pocket-money merely because Gussy kept them in his pocket. ‘You ought to have handed them in at your school,’ said Philip.
    ‘They said I could have pocket-money,’ said Gussy, obstinately. ‘My uncle gave it to me. It is mine.’
    ‘Your people must be jolly rich,’ said Jack. ‘I bet even Bill doesn’t wander round with as many pound notes as that. Is Gus a millionaire or something, Bill?’
    ‘Well—his people are well-off,’ said Bill. He slipped in the clutch again and the car slid off. ‘All the same, he’ll have to hand over those notes to me. He’ll be robbed sooner or later.’
    ‘He’s going to cry,’ reported Dinah. ‘Philip, quick—where’s that table-cloth?’
    ‘I am not going to weep,’ said Gussy, with dignity. ‘I am going to be sick. Always I am sick in a car. I was yesterday. Plizz, Mr. Cunningham, may I be sick?’
    ‘Good gracious!’ said Bill, stopping very suddenly indeed. ‘Get out of the car, then, quick! Push him out, Dinah. Why, oh, why did I let him have that ice-cream? He told me yesterday he was always car-sick.’
    Mrs. Cunningham got out to comfort poor Gussy, who was now green in the face. ‘He would be car-sick!’ said Dinah. ‘Just the kind of thing he’d have—car-sickness.’
    ‘He can’t help it,’ said Lucy-Ann. ‘Anyway, it’s all over now. He looks fine.’
    ‘Plizz, I better am,’ announced Gussy, climbing back in the car.
    ‘Keep the cloth,’ said Philip, pushing it at him. ‘It might come in useful if you feel ill again.’
    ‘Everyone ready?’ called Bill. ‘Well, off we go again. We’ll stop for lunch at one o’clock, and then we’ll be at Little Brockleton by tea-time, I hope. Gussy, yell if you feel queer again.’
    ‘I am only sick one-time,’ said Gussy. ‘Plizz, I have lost my ice-cream. Will you stop for another?’
    ‘I will not,’ said Bill, firmly. ‘You’re not having any more ice-creams in the car. Doesn’t anyone want a nap? It would be so nice for me to drive in peace and quietness! Well—next stop, lunch!’
     
     
    Chapter 5
    QUARRY COTTAGE
     
    Little Brockleton was a dear little village. The car ran through it, scattering hens and a line of quacking ducks. Bill stopped at a little post-office.
    ‘Must just send off a message,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a minute. Then we’ll go and call at the farmhouse to ask the way to Quarry Cottage, and to pick up eggs and things, and order milk.’
    He reappeared again after a moment. The children knew that Bill had to report where he was each day, because urgent jobs might come his way at any moment—secret tasks that only he could do.
    They went off to the farm-house. The farmer’s wife was delighted to see them. ‘Now, you come away in,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting you this last half-hour, and I’ve got tea for you. You won’t find anything ready at the cottage, I know, and a good tea will help you along.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mrs. Cunningham, gratefully. ‘My goodness—what a spread!’
    It certainly was. It wasn’t an ordinary afternoon tea, it was a high-tea. A fresh ham, glistening pink. A veal-and-ham pie smothered in green parsley, like the ham. Yellow butter in glass dishes. A blue jug of