The loud, hoarse voice caused a general turning of heads. From round the corner of the inn sauntered, somewhat unsteadily, his hands in his pockets, a big burly fellow whose red waistcoat, tight leather breeches, and long gaiters proclaimed some connection with horseflesh. His accent was nasal, but there was an undefinable something in his pronunciation that suggested a European rather than an American origin. A long, fair moustache drooped round the corners of a wide, straight mouth; his clean-shaven cheeks were thin and hard; his pale-blue eyes heavy-lidded and watery. The rustics appeared to fall back a little as he approached. He leant one shoulder against a post of the porch, and scowled at the landlord, attitude and gesture indicating that, so far from needing refreshment, he had anticipated the opening of the door. "All in good time, Mr. Jensen," said the landlord, placably. "Law’s law, you know." "Law!" scoffed the man. "I’m sober. I want a lemon-squash. See, if you don’t open that door---- Ah! I guess you know me." The landlord, consulting his watch, had turned, and now threw open the door leading into the bar. The foreigner entered behind him, and was followed by the villagers one by one. A pleasant-faced, motherly woman came out into the porch, and looked inquiringly at the three lads. They walked up from the landing-stage, where they had lingered watching the scene. "Can we have some tea?" asked Warrender. "Ay sure," replied the woman. "They told me as three young gemmen had come up along in boat, and I says to myself ’tis tea, as like as not. Sit ’ee down at thikky table, and I’ll bring it out to ’ee." "We’re pretty hungry," said Armstrong. "What can you give us?" "Why, there ’tis--I’ve nothing but eggs and bacon." "Glorious!" said Pratt. "Two eggs apiece, and bacon to match." "Ay, I know what young gemmen’s appetite be," said Mrs. Rogers, smiling as she bustled away. They sat down at a table placed outside the window. Within they saw Rogers, the landlord, energetically pulling ale for his customers. He had laid aside his snuff-coloured wig, revealing a scalp perfectly bald. While they were awaiting their meal, a girl, dressed in white, riding a bicycle, came along the road on the far side of the river, and, dismounting at the landing-stage, rang her bell continuously as a summons to the ferryman. An old weather-beaten man emerged from the back premises of the inn, touched his hat, hobbled down to his boat, and slowly poled it across. The girl wheeled her bicycle on to it, chatted to the old man while he recrossed the river, paid him with a silver coin and smiling thanks, and, having remounted, sped on towards the village. "Why didn’t I bring up my banjo?" said Pratt, dolefully. "Of course, I can sing without accompaniment. "There’s no sunbeam as bright as your smile, There’s no gold like the sheen of your hair----