“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man.  “Have all in readiness.”

The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old men Spargo had ever seen.  And by this time, knowing that this was the venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight which were positively boyish.

Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety—­a middle-sized, sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed, and strong of voice.  His clean-shaven old countenance was ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his hand was steady as a rock.  His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a fair.  It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease of life before him even at his age.

Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began their symposium.  Another, making five, came in and joined them—­the five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves.  Mr. Quarterpage made the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag.  Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of anything but their own talk.  Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs:  as for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past.

Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said that she believed she could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One.  After discussing the weather, the local events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident upon incident of long years before.  At last they turned to memories of racing days at Market Milcaster.  And at that Spargo determined on a bold stroke.  Now was the time to get some information.  Taking the silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a polite bow, said quietly: 

“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK