ut from sheer
inability to perceive that he is causing inconvenience.

Unless you know the exact spot it is difficult in all this crowd and
pushing, with a nervous dread of being gored from behind by a bull, or
thrown off your feet by a sudden charge of sheep, to discover the door of
the Jason Inn. That door has been open every legitimate and lawful hour
this hundred years; but you will very likely be carried past it and have
to struggle back. Then it is not easy to enter, for half a dozen stalwart
farmers and farmers' sons are coming out; while two young fellows stand
just inside, close to the sliding bar-window, blocking up the passage, to
exchange occasional nods and smiles with the barmaid.

However, by degrees you shuffle along the sanded passage, and past the
door of the bar, which is full of farmers as thick as they can stand, or
sit. The rattle of glasses, the chink of spoons, the hum of voices, the
stamping of feet, the calls and orders, and sounds of laughter, mingle in
confusion. Cigar-smoke and the steam from the glasses fill the room--all
too small--with a thick white mist, through which rubicund faces dimly
shine like the red sun through a fog.

Some at the tables are struggling to write cheques, with continual jogs at
the elbow, with ink that will not flow, pens that scratch and splutter,
blotting-paper that smudges and blots. Some are examining cards of an
auction, and discussing the prices which they have marked in the margin in
pencil. The good-humoured uproar is beyond description, and is increased
by more farmers forcing their way in from the rear, where are their horses
or traps--by farmers eagerly inquiring for dealers or friends, and by
messengers from the shops loaded with parcels to place in the customer's
vehicle.

At last you get beyond the bar-room door and reach the end of the passage,
where is a wide staircase, and at the foot a tall eight-day clock. A
maid-servant comes tripping down, and in answer to inquiry replies that
that is the way up, and the room is ready, but she adds with a smile that
there is no one there yet. It is three-quarters of an hour after the time
fixed for the reading of a most important paper before a meeting specially
convened, before the assembled Parliament of Hodge's masters, and you
thought you would be too late. A glance at the staircase proves the truth
of the maid's story. It has no carpet, but it is white as well-scrubbed
wood could well be. There is no st