sit in the little arbour in the
garden, or in winter by the fire in his dining room. He would talk and I
would ask him questions; now and then he would get up to pull down a
book, or to lead me into his bedroom to see some special treasure. He
used to sit in his shirtsleeves, very close to the fire, with his shoe
laces untied. In summer he would toddle about in his shaggy blue suit,
with a tweed cap over one ear, his grizzled beard and moustache well
stained by much smoking, his eyes as bright and his tongue as brisk as
ever. Every warm morning would see him down on the river wall; stumping
over Market Hill and down Church Street with his stout oak stick,
hailing every child he met on the pavement. His pocket was generally
full of peppermints, and the youngsters knew well which pocket it was.
His long life was a series of original and graceful kindnesses, always
to those who needed them most and had no reason to expect them. No
recluse he, no fine scholar, no polished litterateur, but a
hard-headed, soft-hearted human man of the sturdy old Suffolk breed.
Sometimes I think he was, in his own way, just as great a man as the
"Old Fitz," whom he loved and reverenced.

He died on November 7, 1917, aged ninety-two years three months and four
days. He was extraordinarily sturdy until nearly ninety--he went in
bathing in the surf at Felixstowe on his eighty-sixth birthday. Perhaps
the sincerest tribute I can pay him is these lines which I copy from my
journal, dated July 16, 1913:

"Went up to have tea with old John Loder, and said a cunningly veiled
Good-bye to him. I doubt if I shall see him again, the dear old man. I
think he felt so, too, for when he came to the door with me, instead of
his usual remark about 'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest,' he
said, 'Farewell to thee' in a more sober manner than his wont--and I
left with an armful of books which he had given me 'to keep me out of
mischief.' We had a good talk after tea--he told me about the adventures
of his brothers, one of whom went out to New Zealand. He uses the most
delightful brisk phrases in his talk, smiling away to himself and
wrinkling up his forehead, which can only be distinguished from his
smooth bald pate by its charming corrugation of parallel furrows. He
took me into his den while he rummaged through his books to find some
which would be acceptable to me--'May as well give 'em away before it's
too late, ye know'--and then he settled back in