“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” said Spargo.

He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the barmaid’s spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town until seven o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner.  There were no more people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit.

“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the barmaid, warningly.  “They all have their own special chairs and their special pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if anybody touched pipe or chair.  But you’re all right there, and you’ll hear all they’ve got to say.”

To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the eighteenth century.  Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo’s eye, gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to begin.

“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid.  “You’re first tonight.”

“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and became silent.  He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined to look on life severely.  “Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye.  “No, but here’s Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid.

Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour.  Of these, one was a little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish angle.  The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her.  These two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly as he had greeted the barmaid.  He looked at his two cronies.

“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us.  And there’s a symposium.”

“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man.  “Grandpa’ll be here in a minute.  We’ll start fair.”

The barmaid glanced out of the window.

“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she announced.  “Shall I put the things on the table?”