young----hem! the clergy be present--them youngsters dancin' round me like forty mad merryandrews at a fair."

A roar of laughter greeted the anecdote.

"Ay, neebours," resumed the bailiff, "we can laugh now, you an' me, but theer's many on ya could tell o your own mishappenin's if ya had a mind to 't. As fur me, I bided my time. One day I cotched the leader o' them boys nigh corn-market, an' I laid him across the badgerin' stone, and walloped him nineteen-twenty--hee! hee! D'ya mind that, General?"

He turned to the guest at his right hand, who sat with but the glimmer of a smile, crumbling one of Bailiff Malkin's rolls on the table-cloth.

"But theer," continued the speaker, "that be nigh twenty year ago, an' the shape o' my strap binna theer now, I warrant. Three skins ha' growed since then--hee! hee! Who'd ha' thought, neebours, as that young limb as plagued our very lives out 'ud ha' bin here to-day, a general, an' a great man, an' a credit to his town an' country? Us all thought as he'd bring his poor feyther's grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. An' when I heerd as he'd bin shipped off to the Injies--well, thinks I, that bin the last we'll hear o' Bob Clive. But bless ya! all eggs binna addled. General Clive here--'twere the Injun sun what hatched he, an' binna he, I ax ya, a rare young fightin' cock? Ay, and a good breed too. A hunnerd year ago theer was a Bob Clive as med all our grandfeythers quake in mortal fear, a terrible man o' war was he. They wanted to put 'n into po'try an' the church sarvice.

From Wem and from Wyche

An' from Clive o' the Styche,

Good Lord, deliver us.

That's what they thought o' the Bob Clive o' long ago. Well, this Bob Clive now a-sittin' at my elbow be just as desp'rate a fighter, an' thankful let us all be, neebours, as he does his fightin' wi' the black-faced Injuns an' the black-hearted French, an' not the peaceful bide-at-homes o' Market Drayton."

The little bailiff paused to moisten his lips. From his audience arose feeling murmurs of approval.

"Ya known what General Clive ha' done," he resumed. "'Twas all read out o' prent by the crier in corn-market. An' the grand folks in Lun'on ha' give him a gowd sword, an' he bin hob-a-nob wi' King Jarge hisself. An' us folks o' Market Drayton take it proud, we do, as he be come to see us afore he goes back to his duty. Theer's a' example fur you boys. Theer be limbs o' mischief in Market Drayton yet. Ay, I see tha, 'Lijah Notcutt, a-hangin' on to winder theer. I know who wringed the neck o' Widder Peplow's turkey. An' I see tha too, 'Zekiel Podmore; I know who broke the handle o' town pump. If I cotch ya at your tricks I'll leather ya fust an' clap ya in the stocks afterwards, sure as my name be Randle Malkin. But as I wan sayin', if ya foller th' example o' General Clive, an' turn yer young sperits into the lawful way--why, mebbe there be gowd swords an' mints o' money somewheers fur ya too. Well now, I bin talkin' long enough, an' to tell ya the truth I be dry as a whistle, so I'll ax ya all to lift yer glasses, neebours, an' drink the good health o' General Clive. So theer!"

[Sidenote: "General Clive!"

As the worthy bailiff concluded his speech, the company primed their glasses, rose, and drank the toast with enthusiasm. Lusty cheers broke from the drier throats outside; caps were waved, rattles whirled, kettles beaten, with a vigour that could not have been exceeded if the general loyalty had been stirred by the presence of King George himself. Only one man in the crowd held his peace. The stranger remained opposite to the window, silent, motionless, looking now into the room, now round upon the throng, with the same smile of whimsical amusement. Only once did his manner change; the smile faded, his lips met in a straight line, and he made a slight rearward movement, seeming at the same moment to lose something of his height. It was when the guest of the evening stood up to reply: a young man, looking somewhat older than his twenty-nine years, his powdered hair crowning a strong face, with keen, deep-set eyes, full lips and masterful chin. He wore a belaced purple coat; a crimson sash crossed his embroidered vest; a diamond flashed upon his finger. Letting his eyes range slowly over the flushed faces of the diners, he waited until the bailiff had waved down the untiring applauders without; then, in a clear voice, began:

"Bailiff Malkin, my old friends----"

But his speech was broken in upon by a sudden commotion in the street. Loud cries of a different tenor arose at various points; the boys who had been hanging upon the window-ledge dropped to the ground; the crowd surged this way and that, and above the mingled clamour sounded a wild and fearful squeal that drew many of the company to their feet and several in alarm to the window. Among these the bailiff, red now with anger, shook his fist at the people and demanded the meaning of the disturbance. A small boy, his eyes round with excitement, piped up:

"An't please yer worship, 'tis a wild Injun come from nowheer an' doin' all manner o' wickedness."

"A wild Injun! Cotch him! Ring the 'larum bell! Put him in the stocks!"

But the bailiff's commands passed unheeded. The people were thronging up the street, elbowing each other, treading on each other's toes, yelling, booing, forgetful of all save the strange coincidence that, on this evening of all others, the banquet in honour of Clive, the Indian hero, had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a live Indian in their very midst.

A curious change had come over the demeanour of the stranger who hitherto had been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved. He was now to be seen energetically forcing his way towards the outskirts of the crowd, heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside. His eyes flashed fire upon the yokels scurrying before him, a vitriolic stream of abuse scorched their faces as he bore them down. At length he stopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder, and with a violent twist and jerk flung him headlong among his fellows. Released from the man's grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, his breast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, who soothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, now again pressing near.

"Back, you boobies!" he shouted. "'Tis my boy! If a man of you follows me, I'll break his head for him."

He turned and, clasping the black boy's hand close in his, strode away towards the waiting cart. The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by the tall stranger's fierce mien. But one came out from among them, a slim boy of some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the stranger and had indeed assisted his progress. The rest, disappointed of their Indian hunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy hastened on. Hearing his quick footsteps the man swung round with a snarl.

"I hope the boy isn't hurt," said the lad quietly. "Can I do anything for you?"

The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien and voice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of his manner vanished, and he said:

"Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for your good will.