"Good luck!"
"Thank you, thank you kindly." Dale moved about briskly, shaking hands with every one. Already he had abandoned all trace of his ancient official costume. In cord breeches and leather gaiters, his straw hat on the back of his head, he looked thoroughly farmer-like, and he seemed to have assumed the jovial independent manner as well as the clothes appropriate to the man who has no other master but the winds and the weather.
"So long, Mr. Allen. Put in a good word for me at the Kennels."
"I will so, Mr. Dale."
"Good-by, Mr. Silcox. Hope you'll honor us with a call whenever you're passing. And if you can, give me a lift in the Courier. I may say it's my intention to patronize their advertisement columns regular, soon's ever I begin to feel my feet under me."
"See Rodchurch Gossip next issue," said Mr. Silcox significantly.
"Thanks. You're a trump."
"Good-by, Miss Yorke." And he laughed. "'Pon my soul, I'm surprised it's still Miss Yorke; but it'll be Mrs. before long, I warrant."
"Oh, Mr. Dale!"
"There, so long," and he shook Miss Yorke's hand warmly. "And take my excuse if I bin a bit of a slave-driver now and then. I didn't mean it."