y."

"I would rather be backed by them, sir," said Mr. Barrett.

"Very good. I mean that. Honest intelligent industry backing rank and
wealth! That makes a nation strong. Look at England!"

Mr. Barrett observed him stand out largely, as if filled by the spirit
of the big drum.

That instrument now gave a final flourish and bang whereat Sound, as if
knocked on the head, died languishingly.

And behold, a spokesman was seen in relief upon a background of grins,
that were oddly intermixed with countenances of extraordinary solemnity.

The same commenced his propitiatory remarks by assuring the proprietor
of Brookfield that he, the spokesman, and every man present, knew they
had taken a liberty in coming upon Squire Pole's grounds without leave
or warning. They knew likewise that Squire Pole excused them.

Chorus of shouts from the divining brethren.

Right glad they were to have such a gentleman as Squire Pole among them:
and if nobody gave him a welcome last year, that was not the fault of
the Yellow-and-Blues. Eh, my boys?

Groans and cheers.

Right sure was spokesman that Squire Pole was the friend of the poor
man, and liked nothing better than to see him enjoy his holiday. As
why shouldn't he enjoy his holiday now and then, and have a bit of
relaxation as well as other men?

Acquiescent token on the part of the new dignitary, Squire Pole.

Spokesman was hereby encouraged to put it boldly, whether a man was not
a man all the world over.

"For a' that!" was sung out by some rare bookworm to rearward: but no
Scot being present, no frenzy followed the quotation.

It was announced that the Club had come to do homage to Squire Pole and
ladies: the Junction Club of Ipley and Hillford. What did Junction mean?
Junction meant Harmony. Harmonious they were, to be sure: so they joined
to good purpose.

Mr. Barrett sought Emilia's eyes smilingly, but she was intent on the
proceedings.

A cry of "Bundle o' sticks, Tom Breeks. Don't let slip 'bout bundle o'
sticks," pulled spokesman up short. He turned hurriedly to say, "All
right," and inflated his chest to do justice to the illustration of the
faggots of Aesop: but Mr. Tom Breeks had either taken in too much air,
or the ale that had hitherto successfully prompted him was antipathetic
to the nice delicacy of an apologue; for now his arm began to work
and his forehead had to be mopped, and he lashed the words "Union and
Harmony" right and left, until, coming on a