“That’s a good horse!” he said, pointing to the biggest.
“Ah! We call ’im Lion—’e can pull, Haup!”
The car passed on to the level ground, and the horses were detached. Soames went up to the man who had said “Haup!”
“Are you from the farm back there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own this field?”
“I farm it.”
“What do you call it?”
“Call it? The big field.”
“It’s marked ‘Great Forsyte’ on the tithe map. D’you know that name?”
“Farsyt? There’s none of the name now. My grandmother was called Farsyt.”
“Was she?” said Soames, and again felt the thrill.
“Ah!” said the farmer.
Soames controlled himself.
“And what’s YOUR name, if I may ask?”
“Beer.”
Soames looked at him rather long, and took out his note case.
“You must allow me,” he said, “for your horses and your trouble.” And he offered a pound note. The farmer shook his head.
“That’s naught,” he said; “you’re welcome. We’re always haulin’ cars off this ‘ill.”
“I really can’t take something for nothing,” said Soames. “You’ll oblige me!”
“Well,” said the farmer, “I thank yeou,” and he took the note. “Haup!”
The released horses moved forward and the men and dogs followed after them. Soames got into the car, and, opening his packet of sandwiches, began to eat.
“Drive back to the vicarage—slowly.” And, while he ate, he wondered why he had felt a thrill on discovering that some of his own blood ran in a hard-bitten looking chap called Beer—if, indeed, that WAS his name.
It was two o’clock when he reached the vicarage, and the Vicar came to him with his mouth full.
“I find a great may entries, Mr. Forsyte; the name goes back to the beginning of the register. I shall have to take my time to give you the complete list. That Jolyon seems to have been born in 1710, son of Jolyon and Mary; he didn’t pay his tithes in 1757. There was another Jolyon born in 1680, evidently the father—he was church-warden from 1715 on; described as ‘Yeoman of Hays—’ he married a Bere.”