"That's so!" said an old farmer, who with spectacles on was leaning his back against the wall of the shop near which they stood, to shelter himself a little from the force of the gale, while he read the paper he held--"See here,--this lord was driving his motor along by Cleeve, and ran over Tom's child,--why, that's the poor Kiddie we used to see Tom carrying for miles on his shoulder----" "Ah, the poor lamb!" And a commiserating groan ran through the little group of attentive listeners. "And then,"--continued the farmer--"from what I can make out of this paper, Tom picked up his baby quite dead. Then he started to run all the way after the fellow whose motor car had killed it. That's nat'ral enough!" "Of course it is!" "I'd a' done it myself!" "Damn them motors!" muttered the chorus, fiercely. "If so be the motor 'ad gone on, Tom couldn't never 'ave caught up with it, even if he'd run till he dropped," went on the farmer--"but as luck would 'ave it, the thing broke down nigh to Blue Anchor, and Tom got his chance. Which he took. And--he killed this Lord Wrotham, whoever he is,--stuck him in the throat with a knife as though he were a pig!" There was a moment's horrified silence. "So he wor!" said one man, emphatically--"A right-down reg'lar road-hog!" "Then,"--proceeded the farmer, carefully studying the paper again--"Tom, 'avin' done all his best an' worst in this world, gives himself up to the police, but just 'afore goin' off, asks if he may kiss his dead baby,----" A long pause here ensued. Tears stood in many of the men's eyes. "And," continued the farmer, with a husky and trembling voice--"he takes the child in his arms, an' all sudden like falls down dead. God rest him!" Another pause. "And what does the paper say about it all?" enquired one of the group. "It says--wait a minute!--it says--'Society will be plunged into mourning for Lord Wrotham, who was one of the most promising of our younger peers, and whose sporting tendencies made him a great favourite in Court circles.'" "That's a bit o' bunkum paid for by the fam'ly!" said a great hulking drayman who had joined the little knot of bystanders, flicking his whip as he spoke,--"Sassiety plunged into mourning for the death of a precious raskill, is it? I 'xpect it's often got to mourn that way! Rort an' rubbish! Tell ye what!--Tom o' the Gleam was worth a dozen o' your motorin' lords!--an' the hull countryside through Quantocks, ay, an' even across Exmoor, 'ull 'ave tears for 'im an' 'is pretty little Kiddie what didn't do no 'arm to anybody more'n a lamb skippin' in the fields. Tom worn't known in their blessed 'Court circles,'--but, by the Lord!--he'd got a grip o' the people's heart about here, an' the people don't forget their friends in a hurry! Who the devil cares for Lord Wrotham!" "Who indeed!" murmured the chorus. "An' who'll say a bad word for Tom o' the Gleam?" "Nobody!" "He wor a rare fine chap!" "We'll all miss him!" eagerly answered the chorus.