“’From Wem and from Wyche
An’ from Clive o’ the Styche,
Good Lord, deliver us.’

“That’s what they thought o’ the Bob Clive o’ long ago.  Well, this Bob Clive now a-sittin’ at my elbow be just as desp’rate a fighter, an’ thankful let us all be, neebors, as he does his fightin’ wi’ the black-faced Injuns an’ the black-hearted French, an’ not the peaceful bide-at-homes o’ Market Drayton.”

The little bailiff paused to moisten his lips.  From his audience arose feeling murmurs of approval.

“Ya known what General Clive ha’ done,” he resumed. “’Twas all read out o’ prent by the crier in corn market.  An’ the grand folks in Lun’on ha’ give him a gowd sword, an’ he bin hob-a-nob wi’ King Jarge hisself.  An’ us folks o’ Market Drayton take it proud, we do, as he be come to see us afore he goes back to his duty.

“Theer’s a example fur you boys.  Theer be limbs o’ mischief in Market Drayton yet.

“Ay, I see tha’ ‘Lijah Notcutt, a-hangin’ on to winder theer.  I know who wringed the neck o’ Widder Peplow’s turkey.

“An’ I see tha’ too, ‘Zekiel Podmore; I know who broke the handle o’ town pump.  If I cotch ya at your tricks I’ll leather ya fust an’ clap ya in the stocks afterwards, sure as my name be Randle Malkin.

“But as I wan sayin’, if ya foller th’ example o’ General Clive, an’ turn yer young sperits into the lawful way—­why, mebbe there be gowd swords an’ mints o’ money somewheers fur ya too.

“Well now, I bin talkin’ long enough, an’ to tell ya the truth, I be dry as a whistle, so I’ll axe ya all to lift yer glasses, neebors, an’ drink the good health o’ General Clive.  So theer!”

As the worthy bailiff concluded his speech, the company primed their glasses, rose and drank the toast with enthusiasm.  Lusty cheers broke from the drier throats outside; caps were waved, rattles whirled, kettles beaten with a vigor that could not have been exceeded if the general loyalty had been stirred by the presence of King George himself.

Only one man in the crowd held his peace.  The stranger remained opposite the window, silent, motionless, looking now into the room, now round upon the throng, with the same smile of whimsical amusement.  Only once did his manner change; the smile faded, his lips met in a straight line, and he made a slight rearward movement, seeming at the same moment to lose something of his height.

It was when the guest of the evening stood up to reply:  a young man, looking somewhat older than his twenty-nine years, his powdered hair crowning a strong face; with keen, deep-set eyes, full lips and masterful chin.  He wore a belaced purple coat; a crimson sash crossed his embroidered vest; a diamond flashed upon his finger.  Letting his eyes range slowly over the flushed faces of the diners, he waited until the bailiff had waved down the untiring applauders without; then, in a clear voice, began: 

“Bailiff Malkin, my old friends—­”