contemplated
the landscape.

"'Edges, trees, an' fields, an' a mile to walk for a drink. Not me,"
he muttered, relighting his pipe with solemn gravity.

As the pantechnicon rumbled its ponderous way through hamlet and
village, Bindle lightly tossed a few pleasantries to the rustics who
stood aside to gaze at what, to them, constituted an incident in the
day's monotony of motor-cars and dust.

The morning advanced, and Bindle grew more direct in his criticisms on,
and contempt for, the bucolic life. At last out of sheer loneliness he
climbed up beside the driver.

"'Owd jer like to live 'ere, ole son?" he enquired pleasantly, as they
approached a tiny hamlet where a woman, a child, and some ducks and
chickens seemed to be the only living inhabitants.

"All right with a bit o' land," responded the driver, looking about him
appreciatively.

Bindle gazed at his colleague curiously, then, feeling that they had
nothing in common regarding the countryside, continued:

"Funny thing you an' me comin' to a temperance fete." Then regarding
the driver's face critically, he proceeded: "'Ope you've got yer
vanity-case wi' yer. You'll want to powder that nose o' yours 'fore
the ladies come. Course it's indigestion, only they mightn't believe
it."

The driver grunted.

"Fancy," continued Bindle, "'avin' to 'aul about chairs and make up
tables a day like this, an' on lemonade too. Can't yer see it, mate,
in glass bottles wi' lemons stuck in the tops and no froth?"

The driver grumbled in his throat.

The start had been an early one and he was dry, despite several
ineffectual attempts to allay his thirst at wayside inns.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before a sprinkling of houses warned them
that they were approaching Barton Bridge. Soon the pantechnicon was
awaking echoes in the drowsy old High Street. Half-way along what is
practically the only thoroughfare stands the Pack Horse, outside which
the driver instinctively pulled up, and he and Bindle clambered down
and entered, ostensibly to enquire the way to the Fete ground.

Behind the bar stood Mr. Cutts, wearing the inevitable red knitted cap
without which no one had ever seen him during business hours. He was
engaged in conversation with Dick Little, the doctor's son, and by
common consent the black sheep of Barton Bridge. The subject of their
talk was temperance. He showed no particular inclination to come
forward, and Bindle was extremely thirsty.

Af