, it's funny you should arst that. Jest 'fore I came away
from 'ome this morning my missus told me the Income Tax paper 'ad come
in. That ole Lloyd George is fairly messin' up my estates. Yes, I
don't mind if I do."

At this moment the driver put his head in at the door and muttered
something about getting on.

"'Arf a mo', ole son," responded Bindle; then turning to Little added
with a grin, "I makes it a rule never to keep me 'orses waitin',
mister; the coachman gets so cross."

When Mr. Cutts returned to the bar he saw Dick Little in deep
conversation with Bindle, which surprised him. He saw Bindle's face
irradiating joy and heard him remark:

"'Old me, somebody, 'old me, I say! You jest leave it to me, sir."

Presently they both went out. A moment later the pantechnicon rumbled
off, leaving Mr. Cutts still wondering.

The pantechnicon lumbered on towards the meadow adjoining Kerrick
Castle, which had been placed at the disposal of the committee of the
Temperance Society by its owner. On the tail-board sat Bindle, a
metamorphosed Bindle. All the morning's gloom had vanished from his
features, giving place to a joy not entirely due to the partial
quenching of a persistent thirst.

Dick Little walked slowly home to an early lunch. He had many old
scores to settle with Barton Bridge, and he realised that there was an
excellent chance of a balance being struck that afternoon.

His one anxiety was lest his father should be involved. Between Dr.
Little and his two sons, Dick and Tom, there was little in common save
a great bond of affection. Dr. Little was serious-minded, inclined to
be fussy, but of a generous nature and a genial disposition that gained
for him the regard of all his patients. His son Dick was a rollicking
dandy, an inveterate practical joker, and the leader of every
mischievous escapade at St. Timothy's Hospital, known as "Tim's," where
he enjoyed an all-round popularity.

III

By half-past one o'clock everything was ready for the Temperance Fete.
The large marquee had been erected, the chairs and tables had been
dotted about the meadow. Rustic stalls, gay with greenery and bunting,
invited the visitor to refresh himself. In the centre of a roped-off
space stood a gaily beribboned maypole.

A "cokernut shy," a Punch-and-Judy Show, and the old English game of
Aunt Sally were some of the diversions provided. There was also to be
Morris dancing, the dancers having been trained