‘Shingles,’ said Harriet, drily; ‘and it isn’t infectious.’

‘Crushed again.’ His eyes danced, and all of a sudden her heart seemed to turn right over. ‘O ye gods! render me worthy of this noble wife. All the same, I have a strong suspicion that I am being managed. I should resent it very much, if I were not full of buttered toast and sentiment-two things which, as you may have noticed, tend to go together. And that reminds me-hadn’t we better get the car out and run over to Broxford for dinner? There’s sure to be some sort of pub there, and a little fresh air may help to blow the bats out of my belfry.’

“That’s rather a good idea. And can’t we take Bunter? I don’t believe he’s had anything to eat for years.’

‘Still harping on my Bunter! I myself have suffered many things for love, very like this. You may have Bunter, but I draw the line at a partie carree. Mrs Ruddle shall not come tonight I observe the Round Table rule-to love one only and to cleave to her. One at a time, I mean, of course. I will not pretend that I have never been linked up before, but I absolutely refuse to be coupled in parallel’

‘Mrs Ruddle can go home to bake her pies. I’ll just finish my letter and then we can post it in Broxford.’

But Bunter respectfully requested to be omitted from the party-unless, of course, his lordship required his services. He would prefer, if permitted, to utilise the leisure so kindly placed at his disposal in a visit to the Crown. He should be interested to make the acquaintance of some of the local inhabitants, and, as for his supper, Mr Puffett had been so good as to hint that there was pot luck waiting for him at his house whenever he might care to step in and partake of it.

‘Which means,’ said Peter, interpreting the decision to Harriet, ‘that Bunter wants to get a side-line through the local gossip on the late Noakes and all his household. In addition, he would like to establish diplomatic relations with the publican, the coal-merchant, the man who grows the best vegetables, the farmer who happens to have cut down a tree and can oblige with logs, the butcher who hangs his meat longest, the village carpenter and the man who does a job about the drains. You’ll have to put up with me. Nothing is ever gained by diverting Bunter from his own mysterious ends.’

The bar of the Crown was remarkably full when Bunter made his way in. No doubt the unobtrusive presence of the late Mr Noakes behind a locked door lent a special body to the mild and bitter. At the entrance of the stranger, the voices, which had been busy, fell silent, and glances, at first directed to the door, were swiftly averted and screened behind lifted tankards. This was fully in accordance with etiquette. Bunter saluted the company with a polite ‘Good evening’, and asked for a pint of old ale and a packet of Players. Mr Gudgeon, the landlord, fulfilled the order with a dignified leisure, observing, as he changed a ten-shilling note, that the day had been fine. Bunter assented to this proposition, saying further that the country air was agreeable after town. Mr Gudgeon remarked that a-many London gentleman had been known to say the same thing, and inquired whether this was his customer’s first visit to that part of the country. Bunter said that though he had frequently passed through the district he had never stayed there before, and that Paggleham seemed to be a pretty spot. He also volunteered the information that he was Kentish by birth. Mr Gudgeon said. Indeed? they grew hops there, he believed.

Bunter admitted that this was so. A very stout man with one eye intervened at this point to say that his wife’s cousin lived in Kent and that it was all ‘ops where he was. Bunter said there were hops where his mother lived; he himself knew little about hops, having been brought up in London from the age of five. A thin man with a lugubrious countenance said he supposed that there gallon of beer he’d had off Mr Gudgeon last June came from Kent. This appeared to be a reference to some standing jest, for the bar laughed appreciatively, and much chaff was bandied about, till the thin man closed the discussion by saying, ‘All right, Jim; call it ‘ops if it makes you feel any better.’

During this exchange the customer from London had quietly retired to a window-seat, taking his pint with him. The conversation turned upon football. At length, however, a plump woman (who was, in fact, no other than Mrs Ruddle’s friend, Mrs Hodges) remarked, with that feminine impulsiveness which rushes in where the lords of creation fear to tread: HH

‘You lost a customer, seemin’ly, Mr Gudgeon.’ *Ah!’ said Mr Gudgeon. He darted a looked towards the window-seat, but it encountered only the back of the stranger’s head. ‘Where one goes another comes, Mr Hodges.

‘Tain’t much I’ll be losing on the beer.’

‘You’re right,’ said Mrs Hodges. ‘Nor nobody else, neither. But is it true as ‘e was put away a-purpose?’

‘That’s as may be,’ replied Mr Gudgeon, cautiously. ‘We’ll be hearin’ tomorrow.’

‘And that won’t do no ‘arm to the trade, I reckon,’ observed the one-eyed man.

‘Dunno about that,’ retorted the landlord. ‘We’ll ‘ave to close the ‘ouse till it’s over. Tis only decent. And Mr Kirk’s particular.’

A scrawny woman of uncertain age piped up suddenly:

‘Wot’s ‘e look like, George? Can’t you let us ‘ave a peep at ‘im?’

‘Ark at Katie!’ exclaimed the lugubrious man, as the landlord shook his head. ‘Can’t let a man alone, dead or alive.’

‘Go on, Mr Puddock!’ said Katie; and the bar laughed again. ‘You’re on the jury, ain’t you? You gets a front seat free.’

‘We don’t ‘ave to view the body these days,’ Mr Puddock corrected her. ‘Not without we ask to. ‘Ere’s George Lugg; you better ask ‘im.’

The undertaker came out of the inner room, and all eyes were turned to him.

‘When’s the funeral to be, George?’

‘Friday,’ said Mr Lugg. He ordered a tankard of bitter and added to a young man who now came out, locking the door behind him and handing the key to Mr Gudgeon:

‘You better get started. Harry. I’ll be along in two ticks. We’ll want to close him down after the inquest. He’ll go till then.’

‘Ay’, said Harry.’

‘Tis fine, sharp weather.’ He called for a half-pint, took it down briskly, and went out, saying, ‘See you presently, then. Dad.’

The undertaker became the centre of a small circle, ghoulishly intent upon descriptive detail. Presently the voice of the irrepressible Mrs Hodges was raised:

‘And by what Martha Ruddle says, them as didn’t ‘ave ‘is custom ‘ull lose least by ‘im.’

‘Ah!’ said a small man with a fringe of sandy hair and a shrewd eye. ‘I’ve ‘ad me doubts. Too many irons in that fire, I reckon. Not as I’ve a lot to grumble at. I don’t let no books run beyond the month, and I got me money-allus exceptin’ that there collar of bacon as ‘e made trouble about. But it’s like that there ‘Atry and these other big companies as goes bust-you puts money out o’ one thing into another, till you don’t rightly know wot you’ve got.’

‘That’s right,’ said the one-eyed man. ‘Allus investin’ in things, ‘e wos. Too clever be ‘alf.’

‘And a ‘ard bargain ‘e did drive,’ said Mrs Hodges. ‘Dear, oh, dear! Remember when ‘e lent my poor sister that bit o’ money? Crool, it was, wot she ‘ad to pay. And makin’ ‘er sign away all her furniture.’

‘Well, ‘e never made much on the furniture,’ said the sandy man. ‘A soakin’ wet day that was, w’en they come up for sale. Tom Dudden ‘ad ‘em over at Pagford, and there wasn’t a soul there but the dealers.’

An ancient man with long grey whiskers raised his voice for the first time:

‘Ill-gotten goods never thrive. ’Tis in Scripture. Because he hath oppressed and forsaken the poor, because he hath violently taken away a house which he builded not-ah! and the furniture, too-therefore shall no man look for his goods. In the fulness of his sufficiency shall he be in straits-ain’t that so. Mr Gudgeon?-He shall flee from the iron weapon-ay-but there ain’t no good fleein’ when the ‘and of the Lord is agin the wicked man. There’s a curse upon ‘im, and we ‘ave lived to see it fulfilled. Wasn’t there a gentleman came down from London this morning with a writ agin ‘im? In the same pit that ‘e digged for others is ‘is foot taken. Let the extortioner consume all that he hath-’tis writ so-Ah! let ‘is children be vagabonds and beg their bread-’