“Really, ma’am,” said the elder primly, “the manners of these people! I thought I knew something about language, but I’ve learnt something the three days we’ve been down here. Had a pleasant journey? Me and Sarah have both been feeling humpish. I told her it would be all right soon as ever you and the master came.”
Mr. Gleeson set out, immediately after a meal, to arrange the question that was troubling Murford Green. He had changed into a Norfolk suit, and as a further concession smoked a briar pipe; with a thick walking-stick he prodded at dock-leaves on the green. Near one corner of the triangle a meeting was being held, with a large-faced man shouting excitedly from a Windsor chair. Mr. Gleeson, crossing over, added himself to the audience.
“Well spoke,” sang the crowd, as the large man appeared to finish. “Very well putt!”
“There’s my shop ’cross there,” shouted the orator, pointing to windows that had “Crutchley, Butcher,” in marble letters overhead. “If any one thinks I’ve broke the law, that’s where they can serve a summons.”
The crowd looked around at the village constable. The constable frowned with the air of a man who had not entirely succeeded in making up his mind.
“We’ve got our rights,” the butcher went on, “and I defy any one to say the contrairy. If there’s anybody here who don’t agree with me, now’s the time for him to step up and express his opinion. Free speech is our motto and— What name, please?”
“My name is Gleeson,” announced the newcomer, “and I should like to say a few words.”
“For the agitation, may I ask, or against?”
“My attitude,” said Mr. Gleeson, “is that of a peace-maker.”
The crowd grumbled; the butcher called for order. Mr. Gleeson ascended the chair.