"Oh, did he indeed?" replied Christopher scornfully. "P'raps some'll do it. I think I know one as won't."
Walter said no more. Chris was well known to be what the others called "cranky" in his temper; and when he considered, as he generally did, that he was right, and every one else wrong, there was nothing for it but to leave him alone.
When Thursday came, it was a most lovely September day. There was hardly any one among the thirty members of the Hartfield Parish Choir, who drove in two big wagonettes to the station, that did not look prepared to enjoy the day's outing to the utmost.
"Christopher don't look best pleased, though," thought Walter, as they drove along, glancing at his friend's gloomy face. "And there's Miss Richardson getting out the rosettes. I hope he won't go and make a row; but there's no telling."
The Hartfield Choir consisted of men, lads, and boys, with about half a dozen little girls. The boys and girls, of course, sang alto and treble; the lads alto, if they could manage nothing better; and the men bass and tenor. There were eight men between thirty and fifty years of age, six lads like Walter, and sixteen children.
Half were in one long brake with the rector, and half in another with the schoolmaster and Miss Richardson. About half-way between Hartfield and the station, Miss Richardson produced a white cardboard box, which she opened.
"Here," she said, taking out a very bright rosette made of red ribbon, and a packet of pins, "I want each of you to put one of these on your left shoulder, and then we shall know one another when we are too far off to see each other's faces. There, I've put mine on."
As she spoke she fastened one on to her jacket. Every one else did the same, amidst a good deal of laughing and joking—every one, that is, except one.
"Christopher, where's your badge?" asked Mr. White, the schoolmaster.
"In my pocket, sir," was the answer.