g in his throat. Yes, they were coming; he
could distinguish the tune now, and the _tramp, tramp_ of many feet.
Bob again leaned forward, thrusting his head almost through the window
in his anxiety to see and hear. The missus and the lasses standing at
the gate were too intent on watching and listening to notice him. Now
they were rounding the corner--a brave sight; the big banner with its
gay streamers held well aloft, the stewards with their white wands
also decorated with ribbon; the fine old Thornleigh Arms were to the
front this time, and the Thornleigh folk too--there they came rolling
along, every man happy and merry, and here was "th' owdest member,"
who had walked his fifty-two times, laid by the heels in his solitary
upper chamber! His big, old, gnarled hands shook as they rested on the
sill, his underlip trembled and drooped like a child's, babyish tears
gathered in his eyes.

But what was this? The lads were pulling up, the big banner halted
right opposite his door, just as if it had been the Squire's--with a
sudden crash the band stopped short, and somebody called out loudly:--

"Three cheers for th' owdest member!" And thereupon ensued lusty "Hip,
hip, hurras," long kept up with vigour and enthusiasm by the
Thornleigh members, while the Upton folk, standing aloof and silent,
eyed each other askance and seemed rather glum.

Poor old Bob! His wrinkled rubicund face was a study as he leaned
forth, nodding to his cronies, and shouting at intervals, "Thank'ee
lads, thank'ee."

Mrs. Wainwright was too proud and jubilant to scold him for his
temerity, and stood smiling at her gate, calling to the neighbours to
"Jest see our Gaffer! Theer, he's gone an' oppened window all hissel',
an's lookin' out same's ony on us."

At last the procession moved on again, the band--at least that portion
of it which hailed from Thornleigh playing "He's a Jolly Good Fellow,"
while the Upton musicians tried to drown the efforts of their comrades
by striking up "See the Conquering Hero Comes."

The meaning of this last was presently made clear to Old Bob
Wainwright, whose triumph was of but short duration, for lo! beneath
his window, the second part of the procession suddenly halted, and
there in the middle of the Upton folk, stood his rival, Martin Tyrer!
Much enveloped, indeed, in wraps and comforters, rather pale as to
complexion, very hoarse as to voice, but nevertheless no other than
Martin Tyrer himself. Bob's face fell,