He waved his right hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was covered from wrist to knuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove of black velvet.

“The boy has taken no harm.  Hic niger est, as Horace somewhere hath it; and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder.  Scipio is his praenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his already by nature—­Africanus, to wit.  You take me, kind sir?  But I detain you; your ears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friend yonder; without more ado then, good night!”

And turning on his heel, waving his gloved hand in salutation, the stranger went his way.  The lad watched him wonderingly.  For all his shabbiness he appeared a gentleman.  His speech was clean cut, his accent pure; yet in his tone, as in his dress, there was something unusual, a touch of the theatrical, strange to that old sleepy town.

He hoisted the negro into the cart, then mounted to his place beside the driver, and the vehicle rumbled away.

Retracing his steps, the boy once more joined the crowd, and wormed his way through its now silent ranks until he came within sight of the assembly room.  But if he had wished to hear Clive’s speech of thanks, he was too late.  As he arrived, applause greeted the hero’s final words, and he resumed his seat.  To the speeches that followed, no heed was paid by the populace; words from the vicar and the local attorney had no novelty for them.  But they waited, gossiping among themselves, until the festivity was over and the party broke up.

More shouts arose as the great man appeared at the inn door.  Horses were there in waiting; a hundred hands were ready to hold the stirrup for Clive; but he mounted unassisted and rode off in company with Sir Philip Chetwode, a neighboring squire whose guest he was.  When the principal figure had gone, the throng rapidly melted away, and soon the street had resumed its normal quiet.

The boy was among the last to quit the scene.  Walking slowly down the road, he overtook a bent old man in the smock of a farm laborer, trudging along alone.

“Hey, Measter Desmond,” said the old man, “I feels for tha, that I do.  I seed yer brother theer, eatin’ an’ drinkin’ along wi’ the noble general, an’ thinks I, ‘tis hard on them as ha’ to look on, wi’ mouths a-waterin’ fur the vittles an’ drink.  But theer, I’d be afeard to set lips to some o’ them kickshawses as goes down into the nattlens o’ high folk, an’, all said an’ done, a man canna be more’n full, even so it bin wi’ nowt but turmuts an’ Cheshire cheese.

“Well, sir, ‘tis fine to be an elder son, that’s true, an’ dunna ye take on about it.  You bin on’y a lad, after all, pardon my bold way o’ speakin’, an’ mebbe when you come to man’s estate, why, theer’ll be a knife an’ fork fur you too, though I doubt we’ll never see General Clive in these parts no moore.  Here be my turnin’; good night to ya, sir.”