"The mayor’s a busy man just now," said Eves. "Isn’t there some sort of a ceremony coming on?" "Ay, so ’tis, a ceremony that’s come down from very ancient days, very ancient indeed, when we was all heathens, so it seems. ’Tis the anointing of the British Stone, they do call it, a rare old block of granite all by itself in a field some way north o’ the town. Nobody knows how it come there, but ’tis said there was a battle on the spot, I don’t know how many hundred years ago, and a whole cemetery of bones down below. Whatever the truth is, the mayor and corporation marches out in full rig once a year, and the mayor breaks a bottle o’ cider, the wine o’ the country, atop of the stone. I say ’tis just an excuse for a randy, for they make a sort of fair o’t, wi’ stalls and merry-go-rounds, and I don’t know what all. There won’t be so much fun as usual this year, though, owing to shortage of sugar for sweets and cakes and such. Still, maybe ’twill be worth your seeing, being so ancient." "Rather! I’m tremendously keen on rags, ancient or modern. I’ll be there!" Eves bade the builder good-bye at the door of the hall, and the latter went up the street to his office. As soon as his back was turned, Eves hastened below to the furnace room. "Pretty thirsty work, isn’t it?" he said to the man. "I don’t wonder you’re not keen to be kept so long at it." "’Tisn’t that, sir," said the stoker. "The truth o’t is I was going to take my girl to the cinema to-night. It begins at seven, and she’ll be in a taking, ’cos they’re showing some war pictures, and I’m in one of ’em, and she’s mad on seeing me, though I tell her I ain’t doing nothing, only looking down my nose at a blooming Hun prisoner." "Naturally she wants to see you, and squeeze your hand, and—you know. I should myself. Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll come about 6.45 and release you." The man stared. "I mean it, no kid," Eves went on. "I intended coming to the meeting, but there’ll be nothing very interesting until half time, and the stoking will be finished by then." "But you’ll mess your clothes, sir, not to speak of your hands." "Oh, no! I’ll see to that. Besides, you know, we didn’t fret ourselves about dirt in the trenches. That’s all right, then, and look here—get your young woman a box of chocolates, a pound box—all one price, four shillings. She’ll like your picture all the more." He handed the man a couple of half-crowns, cut short his effusive thanks, and made his way back to the cottage. "Bob come home, Mrs. Pouncey?" he asked the old dame. "Not yet, sir, and I do hope he won’t be late, for I’ve got as tender a loin of young pig as ever I’ve roasted." "Capital! I’m ravenous, I always am. It’s a disease, Mrs. Pouncey. Don’t I show it in my face?" "Bless your heart, sir, your face does me good: it do look so happy!"