“Can’t they be stopped?” Emilia
murmured, clenching her little hands.
The patriotic melody, delivered in sturdy democratic
fashion, had to be endured. It died hard, but
did come to an end, piecemeal. Tom Breeks then
retired from the front, and became a unit once more.
There were flourishes that indicated a termination
of the proceedings, when another fellow was propelled
in advance, and he, shuffling and ducking his head,
to the cries of “Out wi’ it, Jim!”
and, “Where’s your stomach?” came
still further forward, and showed a most obsequious
grin.
“Why, it’s Jim!” exclaimed Emilia,
on whom Jim’s eyes were fastened. Stepping
nearer, she said, “Do you want to speak to me?”
Jim had this to say: which, divested of his petition
for pardon on the strength of his perfect knowledge
that he took a liberty, was, that the young lady had
promised, while staying at Wilson’s farm, that
she would sing to the Club-fellows on the night of
their feast.
“I towl’d ’em they’d have
a rare treat, miss,” mumbled Jim, “and
they’re all right mad for ’t, that they
be—bain’t ye, boys?”
That they were! with not a few of the gesticulations
of madness too.
Emilia said: “I promised I would sing to
them. I remember it quite well. Of course
I will keep my promise.”
A tumult of acclamation welcomed her words, and Jim
looked immensely delighted.
She was informed by several voices that they were
the Yellow-and-Blues, and not the Blues: that
she must not go to the wrong set: and that their
booth was on Ipley Common: and that they, the
Junction Club, only would honour her rightly for the
honour she was going to do them: all of which
Emilia said she would bear in mind.
Jim then retired hastily, having done something that
stout morning ale would alone have qualified him to
perform. The drum, in the noble belief that it
was leading, announced the return march, and with three
cheers for Squire Pole, and a crowning one for the
ladies, away trooped the procession.
Hardly had the last sound of the drum passed out of
hearing, when the elastic thunder of a fresh one claimed
attention. The truth being, that the Junction
Club of Ipley and Hillford, whose colours were yellow
and blue, was a seceder from the old-established Hillford
Club, on which it had this day shamefully stolen a
march by parading everywhere in the place of it, and
disputing not only its pasture-grounds but its identity.
There is no instrument the sound of which proclaims
such a vast internal satisfaction as the drum.
I know not whether it be that the sense we have of
the corpulency of this instrument predisposes us to
imagine it supremely content: as when an alderman
is heard snoring the world is assured that it listens
to the voice of its own exceeding gratulation.
A light heart in a fat body ravishes not only the
