and he stared vacantly forth
without attempting to move.

"Well," cried Tyrer huskily, but triumphantly, "thou'rt theer, art
thou, owd brid? I'm fain th' lads gave thee a cheer to keep thy
sperrits up--we'se drink thy health jest now. I've cotched thee at
last thou sees! This here's fifty-three times as I've walked.
Fifty-three times!" raising his voice to a bellow--"I'm th' owdest
member, now, as how 'tis. Good-day to thee, Robert, I hope thou'lt be
about wick an' hearty this time next year--thou'lt be _second_ owdest
member, an' we'se be fain to see thee among us."

With a cheer and a roar of laughter the party moved on, Martin,
turning after a few steps, to hold up all five fingers of one hand,
and three of the other, intending thereby, according to an
arithmetical system of his own, to denote the number of fifty-three.
Bob quite understood the exasperating allusion, and grew, if possible,
redder in the face than before, though, for the moment, his surprise,
anger, and humiliation left him absolutely dumb.

His family had a bad time of it during all the remainder of that day:
bandages were flying, pillows were pitched aside, food was spurned and
upset, and plates were broken. The choice language, however, which
usually accompanied these tokens of displeasure was not heard to-day.
Since the insult which had followed so close upon the heels of the old
man's triumph, he had continued vengefully mute.

The lads came home at nightfall, not quite perhaps as hilarious as
usual after a Club Day dinner, but with their tongues sufficiently
loosened by Jack Orme's good beer to make them less cautious and more
garrulous than was their custom when within earshot of their father.
Old Bob, sitting up in bed and clutching wrathfully at the blankets,
heard them relate how they had been told that Martin Tyrer was that
set on walking that day, that though his missus had locked up his hat
and boots, he had managed to give her the slip, and had run across the
road and had got Tom Lupton's Sunday hat off him and also his best
boots. Mrs. Tyrer was in an awful to-do, and had come to fetch him at
the Thornleigh Arms. The doctor said it would be the death of her
Gaffer, she declared--but old Martin wouldn't go. He had stayed till
the very end, drinking healths with everybody, and boasting and
bragging he had beaten Bob Wainwright, and _he_ was th' owdest member
now. At this point of the narrative Bob senior overturned his
gruel--which t