Mr. Lavender put it down in a glow of exultation.  “I shall translate words into action,” he thought; “I shall at once visit a rural district where German prisoners are working on the land, and see that the farmers do their duty.”  And, forgetting in his excitement to eat his breakfast, he put the journal in his pocket, wrapped himself in his dust-coat and broad-brimmed hat, and went out to his car, which was drawn up, with Blink, who had not forgotten her last experience, inside.

“We will go to a rural district, Joe,” he said, getting in.

“Very good, sir,” answered Joe; and, unnoticed by the population, they glided into the hazy heat of the June morning.

“Well, what abaht it, sir?” said Joe, after they had proceeded for some three hours.  “Here we are.”

Mr. Lavender, who had been lost in the beauty of the scenes through which he was passing, awoke from reverie, and said: 

“I am looking for German prisoners, Joe; if you see a farmer, you might stop.”

“Any sort of farmer?” asked Joe.

“Is there more than one sort?” returned Mr. Lavender, smiling.

Joe cocked his eye.  “Ain’t you never lived in the country, sir?”

“Not for more than a few weeks at a time, Joe, unless Rochester counts.  Of course, I know Eastbourne very well.”

“I know Eastbourne from the inside,” said Joe discursively.  “I was a waiter there once.”

“An interesting life, a waiter’s, Joe, I should think.”

“Ah!  Everything comes to ’im who waits, they say.  But abaht farmers —­you’ve got a lot to learn, sir.”

“I am always conscious of that, Joe; the ramifications of public life are innumerable.”

“I could give you some rummikins abaht farmers.  I once travelled in breeches.”

“You seem to have done a great many things Joe.”

“That’s right, sir.  I’ve been a sailor, a ‘traveller,’ a waiter, a scene-shifter, and a shover, and I don’t know which was the cushiest job.  But, talking of farmers:  there’s the old English type that wears Bedfords—­don’t you go near ’im, ’e bites.  There’s the modern scientific farmer, but it’ll take us a week to find ’im.  And there’s the small-’older, wearin’ trahsers, likely as not; I don’t think ’e’d be any use to you.

“What am I to do then?” asked Mr Lavender.

“Ah!” said Joe, “’ave lunch.”

Mr. Lavender sighed, his hunger quarelling with his sense of duty.  “I should like to have found a farmer first,” he said.

“Well, sir, I’ll drive up to that clump o’beeches, and you can have a look round for one while I get lunch ready.

“That will do admirably.”

“There’s just one thing, sir,” said Joe, when his master was about to start; “don’t you take any house you come across for a farm.  They’re mostly cottages o’ gentility nowadays, in’abited by lunatics.”

“I shall be very careful,” said Mr. Lavender.