“No, there ain’t been a great sight o’ single men hereabouts,” he said, in answer to a question. “Claybury ’as always been a marrying sort o’ place—not because the women are more good-looking than others, but because they are sharper.” He reached forward, and, taking up his beer, drank with relish. The generous liquor warmed his blood, and his eye brightened. “I’ve buried two wives, but I ’ave to be careful myself, old as I am,” he said, thoughtfully. “There’s more than one woman about ’ere as would like to change ’er name for mine. Claybury’s got the name for being a marrying place, and they don’t like to see even a widow-man. “Now and agin we’ve ’ad a young feller as said as ’e wouldn’t get married. There was Jem Burn, for one, and it ain’t a month ago since four of ’is grandchildren carried him to the churchyard; and there was Walter Bree: ’e used to prove as ’ow any man that got married wasn’t in ’is right mind, and ’e got three years in prison for wot they call bigamy. “But there used to be one man in these parts as the Claybury women couldn’t marry, try as they might. He was a ugly little man with red ’air and a foxy face. They used to call ’im Foxy Green, and ’e kept ’appy and single for years and years. “He wasn’t a man as disliked being in the company o’ women though, and that’s wot used to aggeravate ’em. He’d take ’em out for walks, or give ’em a lift in ’is cart, but none of ’em could get ’old of ’im, not even the widders. He used to say ’e loved ’em all too much to tie hisself up to any one of ’em, and ’e would sit up ’ere of a night at the “Cauliflower” and send men with large families a’most crazy by calkerlating ’ow many pints o’ beer their children wore out every year in the shape o’ boots. “Sometimes ’is uncle, old Ebenezer Green, used to sit up ’ere with ’im. He was a strong, ’earty old man, and ’e’d sit and laugh at Foxy till ’is chair shook under ’im. He was a lively sporting sort o’ man, and when Foxy talked like that ’e seemed to be keeping some joke to hisself which nearly choked ’im. “‘You’ll marry when I’m gone, Foxy,’ he’d say. “‘Not me,’ ses Foxy. “Then the old man ’ud laugh agin and talk mysterious about fox-hunts and say ’e wondered who’d get Foxy’s brush. He said ’e’d only got to shut ’is eyes and ’e could see the pack in full cry through Claybury village, and Foxy going ’is ’ardest with ’is tongue ’anging out. “Foxy couldn’t say anything to ’im, because it was understood that when the old man died ’e was to ’ave ’is farm and ’is money; so ’e used to sit there and smile as if ’e liked it. “When Foxy was about forty-three ’is uncle died. The old man’s mind seemed to wander at the last, and ’e said what a good man ’e’d always been, and wot a comfort it was to ’im now that ’e was goin’. And ’e mentioned a lot o’ little sums o’ money owed ’im in the village which nobody could remember. “‘I’ve made my will, Foxy,’ he ses, ‘and schoolmaster’s takin’ care of it; I’ve left it all to you.’