Joseph stood leaning over the gate for a little while, his eyes travelling slowly from one group to another; after long hesitation he passed in and walked deliberately up the grassy track which divided two batches of the allotments. Many of the workers looked up a moment with a word or nod of recognition, and Joseph nodded back, paused as if to speak, hesitated, and then went on. At last he reached the centre of the ground, and there came to a halt. He took off his battered hat, flourished it to attract attention, and began, pitching his quavering voice as high as he could:— “Neighbours all, I’ve summat to say to ’ee.” “Hello!” cried the man nearest to him, straightening himself and staring. “Here’s old Joe Frisby turned Methody praicher.” “Nay, he’ve a-jined the Salvation Army, sure,” cried another, who was himself a regular subscriber to the “War Cry”. “I know what he’s after,” muttered Jan, working away very diligently. “Don’t you take no heed, none of you.” “I’ve been countin’ of ye up,” pursued Joseph, leaning on his stick and looking nervously round. “Here be twenty chaps workin’ in the ’lotments; aye, twenty chaps, not reckonin’ women and childern, an’ ye be all puttin’ in taters. An’ here am I wi’ my garden at home waitin’ to be planted, an’ not a bit o’ seed to put in it.” “I telled ’ee, didn’t I?” muttered Jan to his nearest neighbour. “I knowed ’twas that he was at.” “I’ve lived among ye man and bwoy for seventy-five year. Aye, an’ my wife an’ me has been wed among ye fifty-two year. There she d’ sit at home crippled, poor soul. We’ve nought in the world but what parish gives us. Half a pound o’ tea a week, an’ some bread. Bread an’ tea, neighbours, bread an’ tea; ’tisn’t very satisfyin’ to the innards. Me an’ my wife was never great folks for mate, but we d’ like a tater to our dinner, or a bit o’ green stuff. An’ so I’ve a-bin thinkin’—” He looked round again, hesitatingly and pitifully. “’Tis a mortal sight o’ taters as is here among ye between one an’ another—aye, a mortal lot. I d’ ’low”—again the pause and the appealing glance—“if every man ’ud spare me a few like I’d get two or three ranks made up without any of ye bein’ at much loss.” The bystanders looked at each other, then each man glanced involuntarily at his own store. None of them were over well endowed with this world’s goods, and the calculations of each had been made to a nicety. Old Jim Cross continued to work without turning his head, and Jan Domeny smiled somewhat sarcastically.