“Now, what’s all this?” said a voice in his ear.

There was a chorus of explanation, declaring that “’Alb” had been set upon without provocation.  There was a particularly voluble woman with red arms and an exceedingly persuasive manner, who advanced from a doorway and described the incident from her own point of view.  She had been hanging out the children’s things, she began, and so forth; and Frank was declared the aggressor and “’Alb” the innocent victim.

Then the chorus broke out again, and “’Alb,” after another fit of hiccupping, corroborated the witnesses in a broken and pathetically indignant voice.

Frank tore himself from one embracing arm and faced round, still held by the other.

“All right; I shan’t run away....  Look here; that’s a black lie.  He was hitting that old man.  Where is he?  Come on, uncle, and tell us all about it.”

The old man advanced, his toothless face contorted with inexplicable emotion, and corroborated the red-armed woman, and the chorus generally, with astonishing volubility and emphasis.

“You old fool!” said Frank curtly.  “What are you afraid of?  Let’s have the truth, now.  Wasn’t he hitting you?”

“He, he, he!” giggled the old man, torn by the desire of self-preservation on one side and, let us hope, by a wish for justice on the other.  “He warn’t hittin’ of me.  He’s my son, he is....  ’Alb is....  We were just having—­”

“There! get out of this,” said the policeman, releasing Frank with a shove.  “We don’t want your sort here.  Coming and making trouble....  Yes; my lad.  You needn’t look at me like that.  I know you.”

“Who the deuce are you talking to?” snapped Frank.

“I know who I’m talking to, well enough,” pronounced the policeman judicially.  “F.  Gregory, ain’t it?  Now you be off out of this, or you’ll be in trouble again.”

There was something vaguely kindly about the man’s manner, and Frank understood that he knew very tolerably where the truth lay, but wished to prevent further disturbance.  He gulped down his fury.  It was no good saying anything; but the dense of the injustice of the universe was very bitter.  He turned away—­

A murmur of indignation broke out from the crowd, bidding the policeman do his duty.

And as Frank went up the lane, he heard that zealous officer addressing the court with considerable vigor.  But it was very little comfort to him.  He walked out of the town with his anger and resentment still hot in his heart at the indignity of the whole affair.

(V)

By the Sunday afternoon Frank was well on his way to York.

It was a heavy, hot day, sunny, but with brooding clouds on the low horizons; and he was dispirited and tired as he came at last into a small, prim village street rather after two o’clock (its name, once more, I suppress).