One sunny spot hard by the southern wall of the old bridge forms the favourite haunt of the old men in fine weather. There they muster in strength on the balmy summer mornings, and there the hardier of them forgather whenever there is a blink of sunshine. Most of them walk by the aid of two sticks, the halest amongst them requiring the assistance of at least one, and on these they lean as they rest their backs against the warm red-brick wall. It is curious to note the heartiness of their morning greetings, and the ‘I’m bravely, thank ye,’ with which an octogenarian doubled up with suffering will answer the challenge as to his health. Their next task is to compare notes as to the past night’s experience, this mutual review of coughs and other specific ailments being often couched in phrases more quaint than elegant; as when dear old Jemmy Baxter said to his listeners the other day: ‘Dash my wig, if I didn’t think I wor agoin’ to die.’ Then follows much babbling of olden times, of strange things which happened when they were hale and hearty, of the sacks of corn they could carry, of the acres they could reap, of the hard work and big pay they had when the great drains were making, and not unseldom of the merry-makings and junketings of half a century ago. Or they talk with a keenness of interest, sadly suggestive, of the event of the day, be it the arrival of a new steam-plough or the latest twin-birth in the parish. Sometimes a scrap of news from the great world without, falls among them—a great shipwreck, a fresh battle, or a general election—and sets them agog with wonder and curiosity.