The plan of submitting specimens of his work, backed by an eloquent testimonial from Mr. Springthorpe, had at length succeeded, and to the amazement of the staff, Henry returned from the interview entitled to regard himself as assistant editor of the _Laysford Leader_. To this day the event is talked of at the office of the _Guardian_, but it is never recorded that important factors in bringing it about were the pressing need of the _Leader_ to have a new assistant at a week's notice, and the growing desire of Mr. Springthorpe to save half-a-guinea on the weekly expenses of the _Guardian_. Moreover, Henry had named a salary five shillings less than the only other likely candidate. From such sordid circumstances do events of life-importance spring. CHAPTER IX WHAT THE NECKTIE TOLD THE grey-blue reek of Hampton Bagot is curling up into the azure sky. From the hill on which the church stands the little village lies snug like a bead on a chain--the London Road--in a jewel-case of billowy satin: green Ardenshire. A haunt of ancient peace this August day. The only noises are the pleasant rattle of a reaping-machine and the musical tinkle of an anvil, while now and again the petulant ring of a cyclist's bell reaches the ear of the lounger on the hill, and thrills some honest cottager with the hope that the ringer may rest at her house for tea. The faint sound of a far whistle reminds us that time has passed since we last stood in Hampton's one street: a mile and a half away, the station, which is to advertise the name of the village to travelling humanity for ever, has been finished, and several times each day trains to and from Birmingham condescend to pause in their puffing progress at the tiny platform. But most of them go squealing through, indignant at finding such a contemptible little station on _their_ line. The stationmaster-porter-ticket-collector and his junior are not overworked--or else they could not play so long with the latter's terrier, who is the liveliest member of the staff. But there are a few tickets to be taken every day, a few carriage-doors to be shut, a few whistles to blow, a few throbs of importance for the young official. We know of one passenger who is to arrive this Saturday afternoon; at least, they are expecting him at Hampton Bagot. The station has made no difference to the village. Certainly none to the figure at the Post Office door. The smile might have been registered, the tilt of the coat-tails patented. Edward John Charles has not altered a hair, although it is almost six years since we last saw him wagging his tails here. "You're expectin' 'im 'ome to-day, Ed'ard John, I 'ear," the inefficient Miffin observes as he crosses to the Charles establishment for an ounce of shag. "Yes, and about time, I think. Why, he ain't been through this door for two year, and last time 'e could on'y stay four days."