and babies, these last propelled by robust or worn-out, slatternly women, who sat by the small roadside fire stirring the battered pot or tending the battered kettle, when resting time had come and food must be cooked.  Gipsies there were who had cooking fires also, and hobbled horses cropping the grass.  Now and then appeared a grand one, who was rumoured to be a Lee and therefore royal, and who came and lived regally in a gaily painted caravan.  During the late summer weeks one began to see slouching figures tramping along the high road at intervals.  These were men who were old, men who were middle-aged and some who were young, all of them more or less dust-grimed, weather-beaten, or ragged.  Occasionally one was to be seen in heavy beery slumber under the hedgerow, or lying on the grass smoking lazily, or with painful thrift cobbling up a hole in a garment.  Such as these were drifting in early that they might be on the ground when pickers were wanted.  They were the forerunners of the regular army.

On his walk to West Ways, the farm Bolter lived on, Mount Dunstan passed two or three of these strays.  They were the usual flotsam and jetsam, but on the roadside near a hop garden he came upon a group of an aspect so unusual that it attracted his attention.  Its unusualness consisted in its air of exceeding bustling cheerfulness.  It was a domestic group of the most luckless type, and ragged, dirty, and worn by an evidently long tramp, might well have been expected to look forlorn, discouraged, and out of spirits.  A slouching father of five children, one plainly but a few weeks old, and slung in a dirty shawl at its mother’s breast, an unhealthy looking slattern mother, two ancient perambulators, one piled with dingy bundles and cooking utensils, the seven-year-old eldest girl unpacking things and keeping an eye at the same time on the two youngest, who were neither of them old enough to be steady on their feet, the six-year-old gleefully aiding the slouching father to build the wayside fire.  The mother sat upon the grass nursing her baby and staring about her with an expression at once stupefied and illuminated by some temporary bliss.  Even the slouching father was grinning, as if good luck had befallen him, and the two youngest were tumbling about with squeals of good cheer.  This was not the humour in which such a group usually dropped wearily on the grass at the wayside to eat its meagre and uninviting meal and rest its dragging limbs.  As he drew near, Mount Dunstan saw that at the woman’s side there stood a basket full of food and a can full of milk.

Ordinarily he would have passed on, but, perhaps because of the human glow the morning had brought him, he stopped and spoke.

“Have you come for the hopping?” he asked.

The man touched his forehead, apparently not conscious that the grin was yet on his face.

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“How far have you walked?”

“A good fifty miles since we started, sir.  It took us a good bit.  We was pretty done up when we stopped here.  But we’ve ’ad a wonderful piece of good luck.”  And his grin broadened immensely.