Meanwhile, as few in the crowd possessed Burke or Debrett, the information that passed from mouth to mouth was diverse and peculiar, but, as was remarked by a laundress in the crowd to a friend:  “He may be the Pope o’ Rome, my dear, an’ he may be the Dook o’ Wellington, an’ not a soul here wud know t’other from which no mor’n if he was Adam.  All I says is—­the Lord send he’s a professin’ Christian, an’ has his linen washed reg’lar.  My!  What a crush!  I only wish my boy Jan was here to see; but he’s stayin’ at home, my dear, cos his father means to kill the pig to-day, an’ the dear child do so love to hear’n screech.”

The Admiral, who happened by the merest chance to be sauntering along the Station Road this morning, in his best blue frock-coat with a flower in the buttonhole, corrected some of the rumours, but without much success.  Finding the throng so thick, he held a long debate between curiosity and dignity.  The latter won, and he returned to No. 2, Alma Villas, in a flutter, some ten minutes before the train was due.

By noon the crowd was growing impatient.  But hardly had the church clock chimed the hour when the shriek of a whistle was heard from up the valley.  Amid wild excitement a puff of white smoke appeared, then another, and finally the mid-day train steamed serenely into the station.

As it drew up, a mild spectacled face appeared at the window of a first-class carriage, and asked—­

“Is this Troy?”

“Yessir—­terminus.  Any luggage, sir?”

The mild face got out.  It belonged to the only stranger in the train.

“There is only a black portmanteau,” said he.  “Ah, that is it.  I shall want it put in the cloakroom for an hour or two while I go into the town.”

The stranger gave up his ticket—­a single ticket—­and stepped outside the station.  He was a mild, thin man, slightly above middle height, with vacant eyes and a hesitating manner.  He wore a black suit, a rather rusty top-hat, and carried a silk umbrella.

“Here he comes!”

“Look, that’s him!”

“Give ’un a cheer, boys.”

“Hip, hip, hoor-roar!”

The sound burst upon the clear sky in a deafening peal.  The stranger paused and looked confused.

“Dear me!” he murmured to himself, “the population here seems to be excited about something—­and, bless my soul, what a lot of it there is!”

He might well say so.  Along the road, arms, sticks, baskets, and handkerchiefs were frantically waving; men shouting and children hurrahing with might and main.  Windows were flung up; heads protruded; flags waved in frenzied welcome.  The tumult was stupendous.  There was not a man, woman, or child in Troy but felt the demonstration must be hearty, and determined to make it a success.

“What can have caused this riot?”

The stranger paused with a half-timid air, but after a while resumed his walk.  The shouts broke out again, and louder than ever.