He had early found his way into Lancaster’s good graces, so that he was rather troubled by his touch of stiffness at the beginning of the meal. He thawed him, however, with one of his quaint questions, and Lancaster soon found himself pointing out characters and fixing labels, supplying histories and opening his treasury of tales. He forgot that “Dandy wants to know” was the driving-power behind Wigmore’s interest, remembering only that he was being given a clear run for the hobby of his heart.
“You know my neighbour here, I suppose—Mr. Dockeray of Ladyford? Oh, well, he’s a pillar of the county—Justice of the Peace, R.D.C., Guardian, etc., so we have to behave ourselves at this end of the room! Mr. Wigmore’s stopping at Watters, Michael—you’ve met Mr. Shaw, of course. Brought him over one day, didn’t I? Michael’s going to give us a song, after a bit. By the way, I hope you’ll be kind enough to do something in that line, too. We fancy our singing here, but I don’t exactly imagine we’ve anything to beat you! Brack Holliday?—yes—that’s the man you gave a lesson in carburettors in the middle of Leighton Mosses. He offered you a cigarette—one of his Turks—and you took it just to oblige him and coughed for ten minutes after he’d cleared out. How do I know? Because I was on the far side of the hedge, working out valuations, and I was pressed for time, or I’d have come over and held your hand or patted you on the back. The shy, thin man between the big cattle-dealer and Belt-End Gibson is Bownass of Moss End. He’s one of your musical people. Been in Sandwath Church choir for years and years, and can’t read a part to save his life. Best ploughman in the district, too—barring, perhaps, Lup Whinnerah, but Lup doesn’t count now, worse luck! You must come to a ploughing-match, one of these days. They’re a bit tedious, though, if you’re a stranger. The masters curse them like anything, beforehand, because the men are so keen practising that they plough like snails, stopping all the time to look behind and admire. It’s a slow job anyway, of course. Still, Miss Shaw might like to know.”
He couldn’t resist the sentence, and saw the blood rise in Wiggie’s face. Rather ashamed, he went on hurriedly—
“That’s Thomas Cuthbert Dennison with the twinkle. He’s asking Brack if he means to start classes for restoring respiration. Brack thinks they’re all going to be drowned on the marsh, you know, and Denny wants to be in practice. He’s a great chap! Bit too fond of a joke, that’s all. Did you see the mangold? No? Well, that cob does take a bit of holding!” He met Wigmore’s eye in polite sympathy, and they both laughed.
“There’s a tale against Denny that never quite goes out of fashion. When he was a lad he was out with a pretty cousin from Lancaster. After a long while of saying nothing at all, he gives a great sigh. ‘Why, whatever’s the matter?’ says the cousin, alarmed. ‘Nay, I was nobbut thinking,’ says Denny, very dismal. Well, then, the cousin offers him a penny for his thoughts, but Denny was terribly shy-like, and wouldn’t out with them. ‘Eh, well,’ he says at last, ‘I was just thinking as I’d never furgit this here walk with thee!’ Cousin fluttered, of course. ‘Why, I’m sure you’re very kind, but you sound terribly serious about it!’ ‘Ay,’ says Denny, ‘I reckon I is. I’se gitten on a paar o’ Brother Steve’s boots, an’ they’ve scratted aw t’ skin off my heels!’ I say—can’t you smother Knewstubb with another microbe or two?”
(The boot story made him think of Brack’s parting speech. He wondered what had brought the tale to mind.)
“Yes, Denny’s a laddie! He’s framed a bit differently with the lasses, since then! But he’s a right good sort, taken all round. His lordship’s making ready for the Loyal Toast, so you’d better be getting something into that glass of yours. You don’t happen to be a parson, do you? That’s all right—we can skip the Bishop and Clergy and get ahead. There’ll be a deuce of a smoke before long—do you think you ought to sing in it? If you find you can’t stick it, there’s a door here, just behind my chair.”
And Wiggie nodded his head gratefully, and began to repeat a mental list as long as the Shorter Catechism, beginning with beef and mutton and silken threads and mangolds and ploughing-matches, and ending with Brother Steve’s boots.
After that, the business of the evening began. The cloths cleared, and dessert on the table, together with the long, white churchwardens, Bluecaster rose to propose “The King!” This having been honoured with fervour, the hands went out to the pipes, and Uncle Willie got to his feet to have his say about the landlord. You could see Bluecaster wriggle until his health was safely through the wine, and the cheers and musical honours safely off the feudal chest. His speech in reply was a mixture of Cairo and crops, recognition, New Year wishes and shy little jokes, haltingly delivered, but it was well intended and very well received; and always the hint of breeding crept out in some graceful thought, however poorly spoken,—regret for a sick man’s absence, sympathy in bereavement, congratulation upon some particular success. Towards the end, he stumbled and stuck with half a sentence on his lips, and Lancaster knew that he wanted to say something about the Whinnerahs, but he was barely through the introductory words before the old man reached out a hand, begging: “Don’t, my lord! Don’t now!” and the master huddled up his speech in a last blanket of acknowledgment and sat down.
Michael had the agent’s health in trust, and when Lancaster stood up to answer, the faces grew interested, for his was the only serious speech of the evening. He looked at Wiggie first, though, firmly taking from him the pipe with which he was meekly struggling. He jerked his head towards the door.