The question was put, always the same words and with the same air of quiet triumph, at intervals of thirty seconds by a little man in a snuff-coloured suit with a purple tie.  Nobody ever answered him, or appeared to listen to him, but he seemed each time to think that he had clinched the matter and cornered his opponent.

Other voices chimed in.

“You hit him, Charlie.  Go on.  You hit him.”

“We’ll have the law.”

“Go on, Charlie.”

Flushed with the favour of the many-headed, Charlie now proceeded from threats to action.  His right fist swung round suddenly.  But Beale was on the alert.  He ducked sharply, and the next moment Charlie was sitting on the ground beside his fallen friend.  A hush fell on the Ring, and the little man in the purple tie was left repeating his formula without support.

I advanced.  It seemed to me that the time had come to be conciliatory.  Charlie was struggling to his feet, obviously anxious for a second round, and Beale was getting into position once more.  In another five minutes conciliation would be out of the question.

“What’s all this?” I said.

I may mention here that I do not propose to inflict dialect upon the reader.  If he had borne with my narrative thus far, I look on him as a friend, and feel that he deserves consideration.  I may not have brought out the fact with sufficient emphasis in the foregoing pages, but nevertheless I protest that I have a conscience.  Not so much as a “thiccy” shall he find.

My advent caused a stir.  Excited men left Beale, and rallied round me.  Charlie, rising to his feet, found himself dethroned from his position of Man of the Moment, and stood blinking at the setting sun and opening and shutting his mouth.  There was a buzz of conversation.

“Don’t all speak at once, please,” I said.  “I can’t possibly follow what you say.  Perhaps you will tell me what you want?”

I singled out a short, stout man in grey.  He wore the largest whiskers ever seen on human face.

“It’s like this, sir.  We all of us want to know where we are.”

“I can tell you that,” I said, “you’re on our lawn, and I should be much obliged if you would stop digging your heels into it.”

This was not, I suppose, Conciliation in the strictest and best sense of the word; but the thing had to be said.  It is the duty of every good citizen to do his best to score off men with whiskers.

“You don’t understand me, sir,” he said excitedly.  “When I said we didn’t know where we were, it was a manner of speaking.  We want to know how we stand.”

“On your heels,” I replied gently, “as I pointed out before.”

“I am Brass, sir, of Axminster.  My account with Mr. Ukridge is ten pounds eight shillings and fourpence.  I want to know——­”

The whole strength of the company now joined in.

“You know me, Mr. Garnet.  Appleby, in the High——­” (Voice lost in the general roar).