A 'furrinor' (foreigner, stranger) here joined the medley, a 'South countryman' from Yorkshire, who, chancing to have lately come to the village after some private experience of his own in stang-riding in one of the remoter Yorkshire vales, at once placed his services at the crowd's disposal. Marching at the head of the procession, like the drum-major of a band, and beating together two saucepan-lids, he led the anthem. Between the 'cling, cling, cling' of the lids his voice rose lustily: 'Ah tinkle, ah tinkle, ah tinkle tang, It's not foor your part nor mah part 'At ah ride the stang, But foor you, Geordie Robertson, who his wife did bang.' Scarcely had he ended when the shrill trebles of the boys took up the wondrous tale, and in antiphony chanted their response: 'Up wiv a bump and down wiv a bang Gans Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang; A bump an' a bang for his deed sae wrang, An' we'll larn him a lesson for ever sae lang.' Then, to the full chorus, with complete orchestra of flute and fife, trombone and triangle, tin whistle and 'sarpint,' brass pot, pan, and saucepan-lids, the entire procession moved slowly onward. Mary's eyes burned bright with exultation as she marched along in the crowd, not letting a single incident of the spectacle escape her notice, and as she watched she too joined in the chorus of 'Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang' without restraint. The sound of the familiar voice roused the victim from the stupor into which the hustling, peltings, and shoutings had reduced him. 'Thoo ----,' he yelled, as he caught sight of her; 'then it's thoo that's at the bottom o' this? By, but if Aa wes free Aa'd----' But a stalk of cabbage thrown at a venture by a small boy on the skirts of the crowd here impeded his utterance, and Mary's voice rang out perhaps more triumphantly than before. The 'fancy' wife, meanwhile, who had at first discreetly retired from public view and looked on at the procession from a distance, had shortly after joined the noisy throng, moved thereto by a sense of isolation, and also by a certain smouldering compunction. She looked around her irresolutely; she felt she had acted precipitately; certainly she was not deriving any advantage from the proceedings, whereas her rival was the leader of the revelry, dancing, clapping her hands, and carrying on like a 'Maypole lass.'