“I knowed as summat was boun’ to happen,” she groaned; “dear o’ me, seventeen-an’-six, no less—­an’ the soles scarce soiled!  Eh, Gaffer!—­it’s downright flyin’ i’ th’ face o’ Providence to be so wasteful.”

Gaffer, meanwhile, purple in the face with suppressed anguish, had forced his foot into the mutilated boot, and now silently and frowningly pointed to his hat.

The Wainwrights started early, for, though many neighbours had offered to give Bob a lift, the old man had insisted on walking all the way.  It was a very painful pilgrimage, but he set his teeth and leaned hard on his stick, and hobbled along dauntlessly, though every now and then his injured foot would give a twinge which made him snarl to himself and stagger.

They arrived just as the mourning procession was setting forth from the widow’s door.  Bob had counted upon being refreshed by a short rest and a glass of “summat”; but there was no time for that now, so he merely wiped his face, drew a deep breath, and fell into line.  The Upton folk were surprised and gratified by his presence; many of them nodded to him in a friendly way, and a few came up and spoke to him.  One or two told him they considered it “rale ’andsome” of him to come.  Bob nodded back, and said nothing.

He stood by, solemnly, while the final sad rites were being performed, and lingered even after all was over.  At last, however, he heaved a deep sigh and turned to go.  Mrs. Wainwright tenderly supported his left elbow and cast a tragic glance round.

“I doubt it’s been too mich for him,” she sobbed—­she always sobbed at funerals, being a very feeling woman, but on this occasion she surpassed herself, some of the Upton folk indeed thought it was scarce decent.  Young Bob and Tom began to blubber too; Polly remarked to Annie that “Feyther’d go next for sure.”  Friends and neighbours gathered round with long faces and sympathetic murmurs.  Robert Wainwright, however, pushed them aside and hobbled forward a few paces without speaking; then he suddenly halted and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Well,” he said with a chuckle, “he walked on Club Day—­ah, he did—­but I’ve walked to his buryin’, so I reckon I’ve cotched him up.  I wonder who’s th’ owdest member now!”

THE CONQUEST OF RADICAL TED

It was Saturday afternoon, and Ted Wharton and Joe Lovelady had left off work early, as was their custom on that day of the week.  They were now betaking themselves with solemn satisfaction to the “Thornleigh Arms,” where a certain portion of their weekly wage would presently transfer itself from their own pockets to that of its jovial landlord.  Joe Lovelady was a great, soft, lumbering fellow, who was considered rather a nonentity in Thornleigh; but Ted Wharton was a very different person.  He was the village Radical—­an adventurous spirit who, not content with spelling out his newspaper conscientiously on Sunday, was wont