entury before, and seemed likely to endure for a
century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase,
and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats;
there were foxes' masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case
on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and
an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small,
old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young
woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy
needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have
looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo,
treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany
it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair.

"This," he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, "appears to me to
be a very quiet place."

"Quiet!" exclaimed the lady. "Quiet?"

"That," continued Spargo, "is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see
that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of
emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far,
that the place is undoubtedly quiet."

The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a
new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and
coming out into the room took a chair near his own.

"It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here," she remarked.
"It's about all that one ever does see."

"Are there many?" asked Spargo. "Do the inhabitants die much of
inanition?"

The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection.

"Oh, you're joking!" she said. "It's well you can. Nothing ever happens
here. This place is a back number."

"Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times," murmured
Spargo. "And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in
this town, then?" he added in a louder voice.

"Nothing!" replied his companion. "It's fast asleep. I came here from
Birmingham, and I didn't know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you
see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months."

"Ah!" said Spargo. "What you are suffering from is dulness. You must
have an antidote."

"Dulness!" exclaimed the damsel. "That's the right word for Market
Milcaster. There's just a few regular old customers drop in here of a
morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in--perhaps
--during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old