By three o'clock the Fête was in full swing. Every stable in Barton Bridge was full, and the High Street presented a curious appearance, with its rows of horseless carriages, carts, and traps. The coach-houses and available sheds had all been utilised to give shelter to the scores of horses. The members of the committee, wearing big dark-blue rosettes, smiled largely their satisfaction. They knew that reporters were present from The Blue Ribbon News and The Pure Water World.
Bindle had entered into the spirit of the revelry in a way that attracted to him the attention of many members of the organising committee.
"An extremely droll fellow, quite a valuable addition to our attendants," the vicar remarked to the Rev. Andrew McFie, the young Congregational pastor, as they stood surveying the scene.
"An admeerable man, Meester Slocum," the cautious Scot had replied. "I have no wish to be uncharitable, but I meestrust his nose."
Entirely unconscious that he was a subject of conversation between the two shepherds of Barton Bridge, Bindle was standing behind a refreshment stall that he had appropriated to himself, surrounded by an amused crowd of revellers.
He was discoursing upon the virtues of lemonade upon a hot day. "Give 'er a drink, sir," he called to one sheepish-looking rustic, who stood grasping in his the hand of a lumpy, red-faced girl. "Give 'er a drink, sir, do, or she'll faint. 'Er tongue's almost 'anging out as it is. Be a sport. No, miss, it's no use your looking at me; my wife won't let me."
As they took their first sip of the much-praised lemonade, many looked wonderingly at Bindle. There was about it an unaccustomed something that they could not quite analyse or describe. Whatever it was, it was pleasant to the taste, and it gave them courage. Eyes that had previously been sheepish became merry, almost bold. The prospect of joy seemed nearer.
The fame of the lemonade soon spread. The fringes about the stalls deepened. The air became bright with shouts and laughter.
A spirit of wild revelry was abroad. The cokernut-shy was the centre of an uproarious throng. Balls were bought and flung with such wildness that none dared to replace the cokernuts that had been knocked off, or to fetch what by rights was his own property.
Mr. Slocum and Mr. McFie strolled round the grounds, sedately benign. They, the representatives of a Higher Power, must of necessity keep aloof from such pleasures, even temperance pleasures; still, they were glad to see about them evidences of such simple and wholesome gaiety.