“Well, I don’t know nothing myself about such gear, except to hear the old organ o’ Wyvern o’ Sundays. But it’s clever o’ you. How did ye learn?”
“’Prenticed, sir, two years to an organ builder in Westminster—Mr. Lomas—and he died, and I was put to the army,” said Archdale.
“Well, I may give ye a lift that way, too. They were talkin’ of an organ for Warhampton Church. We’ll see. I’ll not forget.”
“I thank you, sir,” repeated Archdale. “Any more commands for me, sir?”
Mr. Archdale stood stiffly at the gate, drawn up, as it were, at right angles to Harry Fairfield.
“No, nothing, Archdale. I’m glad the thing suits you, and it may lie in my way yet to make them better than you think for. Good-night, Archdale; good-night, Sergeant-Major.”
“Good-night, sir.”
And Archdale wheeled to his left, and with his back toward the village of Wyvern, marched away at so stiff and regular a quick march that you could have fancied the accompaniment of the drums and fifes.
Harry stood at the iron gate, one half of which was open, and he kicked a stone listlessly into the road, and, leaning on the old iron arabesques, he looked long after that portly figure receding in distance and melting in twilight.
“Night’s the mother o’ thought, I’ve heard say,” said Harry, rousing himself, and swinging the great valve into its place with a clang. “But thought won’t do to dine on. Hollo! Gate! gate! Jorrocks, any one,” he shouted. “Lock the gate, some of you, and make all sure for the night.”