So they had still matter to agitate their youthful breasts, and Nick’s gradual building up of tens, and prophecies and speculations as to his chances of completing the hundred, were still vehemently confided to the field, amid a general mopping of faces.

Evan did become aware that a man was following him.  The man had not the look of a dreaded official.  His countenance was sun-burnt and open, and he was dressed in a countryman’s holiday suit.  When Evan met his eyes, they showed perplexity.  Evan felt he was being examined from head to heel, but by one unaccustomed to his part, and without the courage to decide what he ought consequently to do while a doubt remained, though his inspection was verging towards a certainty in his mind.

At last, somewhat annoyed that the man should continue to dog him wherever he moved, he turned on him and asked him what he wanted?

‘Be you a Muster Eav’n Harrington, Esquire?’ the man drawled out in the rustic music of inquiry.

‘That is my name,’ said Evan.

‘Ay,’ returned the man, ‘it’s somebody lookin’ like a lord, and has a small friend wi’ shockin’ old hat, and I see ye come out o’ the Green Drag’n this mornin’—­I don’t reck’n there’s e’er a mistaak, but I likes to make cock sure.  Be you been to Poortigal, sir?’

‘Yes,’ answered Evan, ‘I have been to Poortigal.’

‘What’s the name o’ the capital o’ Portugal, sir?’ The man looked immensely shrewd, and nodding his consent at the laughing reply, added: 

’And there you was born, sir?  You’ll excuse my boldness, but I only does what’s necessary.’

Evan said he was not born there.

’No, not born there.  That’s good.  Now, sir, did you happen to be born anywheres within smell o’ salt water?’

‘Yes,’ answered Evan, ‘I was born by the sea.’

‘Not far beyond fifty mile from Fall’field here, sir?’

‘Something less.’

‘All right.  Now I’m cock sure,’ said the man.  ’Now, if you’ll have the kindness just to oblige me by—­’he sped the words and the instrument jointly at Evan, takin’ that there letter, I’ll say good-bye, sir, and my work’s done for the day.’

Saying which, he left Evan with the letter in his hands.  Evan turned it over curiously.  It was addressed to ’Evan Harrington, Esquire, T——­ of Lymport.’

A voice paralyzed his fingers:  the clear ringing voice of a young horsewoman, accompanied by a little maid on a pony, who galloped up to the carriage upon which Squire Uplift, Sir George Lowton, Hamilton Jocelyn, and other cavaliers, were in attendance.

‘Here I am at last, and Beckley’s in still!  How d’ ye do, Lady Racial?  How d’ ye do, Sir George.  How d’ ye do, everybody.  Your servant, Squire!  We shall beat you.  Harry says we shall soon be a hundred a-head of you.  Fancy those boys! they would sleep at Fallow field last night.  How I wish you had made a bet with me, Squire.’