“Slovenly chap,” growled the father with great irritation, “my word, if I were near enough I’d larn thee to put on the reet mak’ o’ clooes of a Club Day!  I’d holler now, an’ mak’ thee coom back an’ change ’em, if our missus wasna so nigh, but if hoo chanced to look an’ see me at th’ window, hoo’d be bargin’ me for opening it....  Ha, th’ owd lass has called him back hersel’.  Reet! hoo’ll noan let him mak’ sich a boggart of hissel’—­hoo’ll fettle him up afore he goes.”

He chuckled to himself, as Tom was hauled back, sheepish and sulky, and pushed into the house by the womankind; presently emerging in full bandsman’s dress, tied shoe-laces—­in every way as spick and span as father or mother could desire.  Brandishing his instrument, he ran clattering down the street to overtake his brother, only just in time apparently, for, a minute or two after he had disappeared, the distant sounds of music could be heard.

“They’re coomin’,” said Bob, drawing a long breath, and rubbing his withered hands together.  His eyes grew suddenly very round and red, and he felt a queer choking in his throat.  Yes, they were coming; he could distinguish the tune now, and the tramp, tramp of many feet.  Bob again leaned forward, thrusting his head almost through the window in his anxiety to see and hear.  The missus and the lasses standing at the gate were too intent on watching and listening to notice him.  Now they were rounding the corner—­a brave sight; the big banner with its gay streamers held well aloft, the stewards with their white wands also decorated with ribbon; the fine old Thornleigh Arms were to the front this time, and the Thornleigh folk too—­there they came rolling along, every man happy and merry, and here was “th’ owdest member,” who had walked his fifty-two times, laid by the heels in his solitary upper chamber!  His big, old, gnarled hands shook as they rested on the sill, his underlip trembled and drooped like a child’s, babyish tears gathered in his eyes.

But what was this?  The lads were pulling up, the big banner halted right opposite his door, just as if it had been the Squire’s—­with a sudden crash the band stopped short, and somebody called out loudly:—­

“Three cheers for th’ owdest member!” And thereupon ensued lusty “Hip, hip, hurras,” long kept up with vigour and enthusiasm by the Thornleigh members, while the Upton folk, standing aloof and silent, eyed each other askance and seemed rather glum.

Poor old Bob!  His wrinkled rubicund face was a study as he leaned forth, nodding to his cronies, and shouting at intervals, “Thank’ee lads, thank’ee.”

Mrs. Wainwright was too proud and jubilant to scold him for his temerity, and stood smiling at her gate, calling to the neighbours to “Jest see our Gaffer!  Theer, he’s gone an’ oppened window all hissel’, an’s lookin’ out same’s ony on us.”

At last the procession moved on again, the band—­at least that portion of it which hailed from Thornleigh playing “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” while the Upton musicians tried to drown the efforts of their comrades by striking up “See the Conquering Hero Comes.”