'That were burnt down a matter of fifty year ago. Was you a native of these parts, old man?'
There was a large plate-glass shop-window just opposite the crowd that surrounded Diggory. A dark blind was pulled down inside, because it was Wednesday and early-closing day. This made a fine mirror, and Diggory happened to look in it, and there he saw himself—an old, old white-haired man on a white horse. He had a white beard, too, but it was quite short, because it had only had since bedtime last night to grow in.
He almost tumbled off his horse. The landlord of the Ship led him in to sit by the fire in the bar parlour, and the eight horses were put up in the stable.
The old man who had told him about the mill came and sat by him, and poor old Diggory asked questions till he grew tired of hearing the answer, which was always the same: 'Dead, dead, dead!'
Then he sat silent, and the people in the bar talked about his horses, and a young man said:
'I wish I'd got e'er a one on 'em. I'd do a tidy bit in fish, an I set up for myself—so I would.'
'Young man,' said Diggory, 'you may take one of them; its name is Invicta.'
The young man could hardly believe his for-
