"The self-made man, gentlemen," he was saying when I entered, "the self-made man is the king of men! What is a Peer of the Realm, gentlemen—yes, I will even go further, and with all respect say, what is the Sovereign in comparison with the man who has made himself out of nothing? Our worthy mayor-elect——"
"Why," said another man, interrupting the wordy one and espying me, "I believe Mr. Poskitt there used to drive Abraham into school in Sicaster here when they were lads together. Wasn't that so, Mr. Poskitt, sir?"
"You are quite right, sir," I replied, "and Mr. Kellet used to say in those days that he would be Mayor of Sicaster."
"Aye, look there now, gentlemen!" exclaimed the loquacious one. "That just proves the argument which——"
But I gave no heed to him—as I have said, I got enough of him on market-days, and my attention had been attracted to a man, a stranger (you know how quickly we country-folk always spot a man who does not belong to us), who sat in a corner of the bar-parlour, which, as I should say, you are all very well aware, is a dimly-lighted room. He sat there, apart from everybody, a glass on the table before him, a cigar in his hand—and the cigar had been lighted, and had gone out, and while the other men talked he made no attempt to relight it, but sat quietly listening. He was an oldish man, well dressed in clothes which were, I considered, of foreign cut and material; his hair was grey and rather long and tangled about his eyes, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat well pulled down over his brows. "An artist gentleman," I thought, and then thought no more about him and finished my whisky and went out into the market-place.
My invitation was to Abraham's private house, from which, in accordance with custom, he was to be escorted by a few private friends to the Town Hall at eleven o'clock. It was a fine, indeed a noble house, standing in the market-place exactly in front of his shop, and the interior was as grand as the exterior—paintings and gildings and soft carpets and luxuries on all sides. Abraham kept a man-servant by that time, and I was conducted in state up a fine staircase to the drawing-room, where I found a goodly company already assembled—the Vicar, and the Town Clerk, and some of the aldermen and big-wigs of the place, and Abraham in his usual—but new—attire of broadcloth and white linen, and his wife and two daughters in silks and satins, and everything very stately. There were rare wines set out on the tables, but I took a drop more whisky. And presently Abraham grasped my arm and led me across to one of the windows overlooking the market-place.
"Poskitt!" he said, in a low voice, "do you remember when you used to drive me into school and share your dinner with me?"
"I do," said I.
He waved his hand—a big white hand, with a fine diamond ring sparkling on it—towards the shop and then around him.
"Didn't I say I would be Mayor of Sicaster?" he said.