"Piping Pebworth, dancing Marston,
Haunted Hillborough, hungry Grafton,
Dodging Exhall, Papist Wixford,
Beggarly Broom and drunken Bidford."
Bidford is not drunken now; it is only sleepy: a long steep street, with, at the top, the church and a beautiful old house, now cottages, once the Falcon Inn, where Shakespeare used to drink, and where the chair came from that they had seen at the birthplace yesterday; and at the foot the Swan Inn and the old bridge.
Bidford is built very like a wateringplace—that is to say, it is all on one side of the river. The water to-day looked very tempting, especially as a great number of boats were lying on it waiting to be hired; but Robert sternly ordered his party onwards.
Has it ever occurred to you that in the life of every policeman there is one day when he wears his majestic uniform in public for the first time? It must, of course, be so. No matter how many times he may have put it on at home privately, to get used to it, the day must at last come when he has to walk forth into the streets, and in the eyes of those who have known him ever since he was a boy, or even a baby, changed from a man like themselves to an important and rather dreadful guardian of the peace. If he is a simple fellow, the great day may leave him very much as he was; but if he is at all given to conceit, it may make him worse.
Now it happened that this Tuesday on which the Slowcoaches were on their way from Stratford to Evesham was the very day on which Benjamin Roper was beginning his duties as a member of the Warwickshire constabulary. His beat in the morning lay between Bidford and Salford Priors, and he was standing beside the road, on the top of the little hill called Marriage Hill—just before you cross the River Arrow and come to Salford Priors station—at the very moment that Moses, after painfully dragging the Slowcoach up the same eminence, had reached the summit.
At the door of the caravan were to be seen Mary, Hester, and Gregory, whose turn it was to ride; and P.C. Roper stared in astonishment at faces so unlike the swarthy, tanned children he was expecting.
He stared so long indeed—everything being a little strange to him that day—that Jack, who, with Horace, was walking just behind, politely but with every intention of being severe, inquired: "Do you think you'll know us next time?"
P.C. Roper said nothing, but frowned at Jack with an expression so full of dignity, reprimand, and suspicion that Jack could not help laughing.
"Oh, I say," he said, "don't be cross. Mayn't we go about in a caravan if we want to? No one else has objected."
"No," Horace added, "the King said nothing as we came through London, and the Mayor of Stratford asked us to tea."