The meaning of this last was presently made clear to Old Bob Wainwright, whose triumph was of but short duration, for lo! beneath his window, the second part of the procession suddenly halted, and there in the middle of the Upton folk, stood his rival, Martin Tyrer!  Much enveloped, indeed, in wraps and comforters, rather pale as to complexion, very hoarse as to voice, but nevertheless no other than Martin Tyrer himself.  Bob’s face fell, and he stared vacantly forth without attempting to move.

“Well,” cried Tyrer huskily, but triumphantly, “thou’rt theer, art thou, owd brid?  I’m fain th’ lads gave thee a cheer to keep thy sperrits up—­we’se drink thy health jest now.  I’ve cotched thee at last thou sees!  This here’s fifty-three times as I’ve walked.  Fifty-three times!” raising his voice to a bellow—­“I’m th’ owdest member, now, as how ’tis.  Good-day to thee, Robert, I hope thou’lt be about wick an’ hearty this time next year—­thou’lt be second owdest member, an’ we’se be fain to see thee among us.”

With a cheer and a roar of laughter the party moved on, Martin, turning after a few steps, to hold up all five fingers of one hand, and three of the other, intending thereby, according to an arithmetical system of his own, to denote the number of fifty-three.  Bob quite understood the exasperating allusion, and grew, if possible, redder in the face than before, though, for the moment, his surprise, anger, and humiliation left him absolutely dumb.

His family had a bad time of it during all the remainder of that day:  bandages were flying, pillows were pitched aside, food was spurned and upset, and plates were broken.  The choice language, however, which usually accompanied these tokens of displeasure was not heard to-day.  Since the insult which had followed so close upon the heels of the old man’s triumph, he had continued vengefully mute.

The lads came home at nightfall, not quite perhaps as hilarious as usual after a Club Day dinner, but with their tongues sufficiently loosened by Jack Orme’s good beer to make them less cautious and more garrulous than was their custom when within earshot of their father.  Old Bob, sitting up in bed and clutching wrathfully at the blankets, heard them relate how they had been told that Martin Tyrer was that set on walking that day, that though his missus had locked up his hat and boots, he had managed to give her the slip, and had run across the road and had got Tom Lupton’s Sunday hat off him and also his best boots.  Mrs. Tyrer was in an awful to-do, and had come to fetch him at the Thornleigh Arms.  The doctor said it would be the death of her Gaffer, she declared—­but old Martin wouldn’t go.  He had stayed till the very end, drinking healths with everybody, and boasting and bragging he had beaten Bob Wainwright, and he was th’ owdest member now.  At this point of the narrative Bob senior overturned his gruel—­which till now he had respected on account of the flavouring—­and kicked so hard at the bed-clothes that he hurt his gouty foot, and uttered a roar of rage and pain which caused his sons to lower their voices to a discreet whisper.