is work, backed by an eloquent
testimonial from Mr. Springthorpe, had at length succeeded, and to the
amazement of the staff, Henry returned from the interview entitled to
regard himself as assistant editor of the _Laysford Leader_. To this day
the event is talked of at the office of the _Guardian_, but it is never
recorded that important factors in bringing it about were the pressing
need of the _Leader_ to have a new assistant at a week's notice, and
the growing desire of Mr. Springthorpe to save half-a-guinea on the
weekly expenses of the _Guardian_. Moreover, Henry had named a salary
five shillings less than the only other likely candidate.

From such sordid circumstances do events of life-importance spring.

CHAPTER IX

WHAT THE NECKTIE TOLD

THE grey-blue reek of Hampton Bagot is curling up into the azure sky.
From the hill on which the church stands the little village lies snug
like a bead on a chain--the London Road--in a jewel-case of billowy
satin: green Ardenshire. A haunt of ancient peace this August day. The
only noises are the pleasant rattle of a reaping-machine and the musical
tinkle of an anvil, while now and again the petulant ring of a cyclist's
bell reaches the ear of the lounger on the hill, and thrills some honest
cottager with the hope that the ringer may rest at her house for tea.

The faint sound of a far whistle reminds us that time has passed since
we last stood in Hampton's one street: a mile and a half away, the
station, which is to advertise the name of the village to travelling
humanity for ever, has been finished, and several times each day trains
to and from Birmingham condescend to pause in their puffing progress at
the tiny platform. But most of them go squealing through, indignant at
finding such a contemptible little station on _their_ line. The
stationmaster-porter-ticket-collector and his junior are not
overworked--or else they could not play so long with the latter's
terrier, who is the liveliest member of the staff. But there are a few
tickets to be taken every day, a few carriage-doors to be shut, a few
whistles to blow, a few throbs of importance for the young official.

We know of one passenger who is to arrive this Saturday afternoon; at
least, they are expecting him at Hampton Bagot.

The station has made no difference to the village. Certainly none to the
figure at the Post Office door. The smile might ha