“Yes. Ollivant Thorne. ‘Creeping Jesus’ they call him in the village, with his slimy voice and his shifty eyes! What are you all on your hind legs for, by the way? I’ve a lot to say, so you may as well ease up to it. That’s better! It was like this: Lambert sent me a private note to say that Thorne didn’t think the milk up to standard, so I went round myself to see about it, and there if you please was the Creeping Jesus, waiting ready to sniff at the milkcan as soon as it stopped at the door. Of course I asked him where the devil he had learned anything about milk with his death’s head always stuck in a ledger, and he said he was there to see that the poor were not being fleeced by a flummoxing farmer. I replied that the milk was the best in the county, as anybody but a long-eared sarsaparilla raised on barley-water and lemon wouldn’t need telling, and he said that language wasn’t allowed in the Sacred Precincts of the Pure Pauper, and that he should parley with the Board, and have the contract taken from me. I told him he could sue me for jumping it on the spot, and tried to come away and the milk with me, but Lambert nearly wept, so of course I turned soft and let him have it. He said awful things about Thorne when the Creeping Jesus had bunked, but of course that’s unofficial, so you must keep it dark. The creature’s had his knife into me ever since I chucked him out for trying some stuff on Stubbs that he called a perfect substitute for whisky. Stubbs was ill for days afterwards--weren’t you, Stubbs?--and I had to stick upstairs nursing him and let the farm slide.” “Thorne?” Hamer pondered. “I know the man. Excise--insurance--law--what is he? Something parchmenty, anyhow. Had two hours of him one day, and never guessed what he was after until the last five minutes, when he tried to get some work out of me. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. County odd-jobber, isn’t he, as well?” Lanty nodded. “Rural District Council. Attends like his prayers. I share the honour with him. We’ve been returned unopposed at least twice, and there’s nobody coming up against us this time either that I know of. Election in March. Afraid I don’t lay myself out much to oblige. The estate carries me, and Thorne has a select band of slummites that he beats up for the occasion.” “Estate be hanged!” Harriet jeered. “Lanty’s shoving his head in the sand, Mr. Shaw. He doesn’t need to canvass, because the district, in its rational moments, happens to know a useful man when it sees one. Thorne always works like a black if he thinks there’s a chance of a fight. You’ll find him slumming for months beforehand--the carping old milk-sniffer! I’ve half a mind to stand against him myself.”