Unless you know the exact spot it is difficult in all this crowd and pushing, with a nervous dread of being gored from behind by a bull, or thrown off your feet by a sudden charge of sheep, to discover the door of the Jason Inn.  That door has been open every legitimate and lawful hour this hundred years; but you will very likely be carried past it and have to struggle back.  Then it is not easy to enter, for half a dozen stalwart farmers and farmers’ sons are coming out; while two young fellows stand just inside, close to the sliding bar-window, blocking up the passage, to exchange occasional nods and smiles with the barmaid.

However, by degrees you shuffle along the sanded passage, and past the door of the bar, which is full of farmers as thick as they can stand, or sit.  The rattle of glasses, the chink of spoons, the hum of voices, the stamping of feet, the calls and orders, and sounds of laughter, mingle in confusion.  Cigar-smoke and the steam from the glasses fill the room—­all too small—­with a thick white mist, through which rubicund faces dimly shine like the red sun through a fog.

Some at the tables are struggling to write cheques, with continual jogs at the elbow, with ink that will not flow, pens that scratch and splutter, blotting-paper that smudges and blots.  Some are examining cards of an auction, and discussing the prices which they have marked in the margin in pencil.  The good-humoured uproar is beyond description, and is increased by more farmers forcing their way in from the rear, where are their horses or traps—­by farmers eagerly inquiring for dealers or friends, and by messengers from the shops loaded with parcels to place in the customer’s vehicle.

At last you get beyond the bar-room door and reach the end of the passage, where is a wide staircase, and at the foot a tall eight-day clock.  A maid-servant comes tripping down, and in answer to inquiry replies that that is the way up, and the room is ready, but she adds with a smile that there is no one there yet.  It is three-quarters of an hour after the time fixed for the reading of a most important paper before a meeting specially convened, before the assembled Parliament of Hodge’s masters, and you thought you would be too late.  A glance at the staircase proves the truth of the maid’s story.  It has no carpet, but it is white as well-scrubbed wood could well be.  There is no stain, no dust, no foot-mark on it; no heavy shoe that has been tramping about in the mud has been up there.  But it is necessary to go on or go back, and of the two the first is the lesser evil.

The staircase is guarded by carved banisters, and after going up two flights you enter a large and vacant apartment prepared for the meeting of the farmers’ club.  At the farther end is a small mahogany table, with an armchair for the president, paper, pens, ink, blotting-paper, and a wax candle and matches, in case he should want a light.  Two less dignified chairs are for the secretary (whose box, containing the club records, books of reference, &c., is on the table), and for the secretary’s clerk.  Rows of plain chairs stretch across the room, rank after rank; these are for the audience.  And last of all are two long forms, as if for Hodge, if Hodge chooses to come.