afore she pulled a feäce at me.”
“Well, if you wink at her again I’ll lick you.”
“Mebbe.”
“There’s no ‘mebbe’ about it. Come down to the other end of the green now, if you think I can’t.”
Jim Bates was no coward, but he was faced with the alternative of yielding gracefully and watching the showmen at work or risking a defeat in a needless battle. He chose the better part of valor.
“It’s neän o’ my business,” he said. “I deän’t want te wink at t’ young leddy.”
At the inn door Mrs. Atkinson’s three little girls were standing with Kitty Thwaites, the housemaid. The eldest, a bonnie child, whose fair skin was covered with freckles, ran toward Martin.
“Where hae ye bin all t’ week?” she inquired. “Are ye always wi’ that Saumarez girl?”
“No.”
“I heerd tell she was at your pleäce all hours. What beautiful frocks she has, but I should be asheämed te show me legs like her.”
“That’s the way she dresses,” said Martin curtly.
“How funny. Is she fond of you?”
“How do I know?” He tried to edge away.
Evelyn tossed her head.
“Oh, I don’t care. Why should I?”
“There’s no reason that I can tell.”
“You soon forget yer friends. On’y last Whit Monday ye bowt me a packet of chocolates.”
There was truth in this. Martin quitted her sheepishly. He drew near some men, one of whom was Fred, the groom, and Fred had been drinking, as a preliminary to the deeper potations of the coming week.
“Ay, there she is!” he muttered, with an angry leer at Kitty. “She thinks what’s good eneuf fer t’ sister is good eneuf fer her. We’ll see. Oad John Bollan’ sent ’im away wiv a flea i’ t’ lug a-Tuesday. I reckon he’ll hev one i’ t’ other ear if ’e comes after Kitty.”
One of the men grinned contemptuously.
“Gan away!” he said. “George Pickerin’ ’ud chuck you ower t’ top o’ t’ hotel if ye said ‘Booh’ to ’im.”
But Fred, too, grinned, blinking like an owl in daylight.
“Them as lives t’ longest sees t’ meäst,” he muttered, and walked toward the stables, passing close to Kitty, who looked through him without seeing him.
Suddenly there was a stir among the loiterers. Mrs. Saumarez was walking through the village with Mr. Beckett-Smythe. Behind the pair came the squire’s two sons and Angèle. The great man had called on the new visitor to Elmsdale, and together they strolled forth, while he explained the festivities of the coming week, and told the lady that these “feasts” were the creation of an act of Charles II. as a protest against the Puritanism of the Commonwealth.
Martin stood at the side of the road. Mrs. Saumarez did not notice him, but Angèle did. She lifted her chin and dropped her eyelids in clever burlesque of Elsie Herbert, the vicar’s daughter, but ignored him otherwise. Martin was hurt, though he hardly expected to be spoken to in the presence of distinguished company. But he could not help looking after the party. Angèle turned and caught his glance. She put out her tongue.
He heard a mocking laugh and knew that Evelyn Atkinson was telling her sisters of the incident, whereupon he dug his hands in his pockets and whistled.
A shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its glories soon dispelled the gloom of Angèle’s snub. The long tube was supported on stays, the target put in place, the gaudy front pieced together, and half a dozen rifles unpacked. The proprietor meant to earn a few honest pennies that night, and some of the men were persuaded to try their prowess.
Martin was a born sportsman. He watched the competitors so keenly that Angèle returned with her youthful cavaliers without attracting his attention. Worse than that, Evelyn Atkinson, scenting the possibility of rustic intrigue, caught Martin’s elbow and asked quite innocently why a bell rang if the shooter hit the bull’s-eye.
Proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was a hole in the iron plate, and that no bell, but a sheet of copper, was suspended in the box at the back where the lamp was.
Both Angèle and Evelyn appreciated the situation exactly. The boy alone was ignorant of their tacit rivalry.
Angèle pointed out Martin to the Beckett-Smythes.
“He is such a nice boy,” she said sweetly. “I see him every day. He can fight any boy in the village.”
“Hum,” said the heir. “How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
“I am fifteen.”
Angèle smiled like a seraph.
“Regardez-vous donc!” she said. “He could twiddle you round – so,” and she spun one hand over the other.
“I’d like to see him try,” snorted the aristocrat. The opportunity offered itself sooner than he expected, but the purring of a high-powered car coming through the village street caused the pedestrians to draw aside. The car, a new and expensive one, was driven by a chauffeur, but held no passengers.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe gazed after it reflectively.
“Well, I thought I knew every car in this district,” he began.
“It is mine, I expect,” announced Mrs. Saumarez. “I’ve ordered one, and it should arrive to-day. I need an automobile for an occasional long run. For pottering about the village lanes, I may buy a pony cart.”
“What make is your car?” inquired the Squire.
“A Mercedes. I’m told it is by far the best at the price.”
“It’s the best German car, of course, but I can hardly admit that it equals the French, or even our own leading types.”
“Oh, I don’t profess to understand these things. I only know that my banker advised me to buy none other. He explained the matter simply enough. The German manufacturers want to get into the trade and are content to lose money for a year or so. You know how pushful they are.”
Beckett-Smythe saw the point clearly. He was even then hesitating between a Panhard and an Austin. He decided to wait a little longer and ascertain the facts about the Mercedes. A month later he purchased one. Mrs. Saumarez’s chauffeur, a smart young mechanic from Bremen, who spoke English fluently, demonstrated that the buyer was given more than his money’s worth. The amiable Briton wondered how such things could be, but was content to benefit personally. He, in time, spread the story. German cars enjoyed a year’s boomlet in that part of Yorkshire. With nearly every car came a smart young chauffeur mechanic. Surely, this was wisdom personified. They knew the engine, could effect nearly all road repairs, demanded less wages than English drivers, and were always civil and reliable.
“Go-ahead people,
