Mr. Bumpkin sings a good old song—the Sergeant becomes quite a convivial companion and plays dominoes.

The Sergeant, having finished his repast, again had recourse to his pipe, and was proceeding to light it when Mr. Bumpkin appeared in the room.

“We be gwine to have a song, maister,” said Joe.

“Give us a song, governor,” said half-a-dozen voices.

“Ay, do, maister,” says Joe; “thee sings a good un, I knows, for I ha eerd thee often enough at arvest oames: gie us a song, maister.”

Now if there was one thing Mr. Bumpkin thought he was really great at besides ploughing the straightest and levellest furrow, it was singing the longest and levellest song. He had been known to sing one, which, with its choruses, had lasted a full half hour, and then had broken down for lack of memory.

On the present occasion he would have exhibited no reluctance, having had a glass or two in the Bar Parlour had he not possessed those misgivings about the Sergeant. He looked furtively at that officer as though it were better to give him no chance. Seeing, however, that he was smoking quietly, and almost in a forlorn manner by himself, his apprehensions became less oppressive.

Invitations were repeated again and again, and with such friendly vehemence that resistance at last was out of the question.

“I aint sung for a good while,” said he, “but I wunt be disagreeable like, so here goes.”

But before he could start there was such a thundering on the tables that several minutes elapsed. At length there was sufficient silence to enable him to be heard.

“This is Church and Crown, lads.”

“Gie me the man as loves the Squire,
The Parson, and the Beak;
And labours twelve good hours a day
For thirteen bob a week!”

“Hooroar! hooroar! hooroar!” shouted Lazyman. “What d’ye think ’o that?”

“O, my eye,” said Outofwork, “aint it jolly?”

“Well done! bravo!” shrieked the Boardman. “I’ll carry that ere man through the streets on my shoulders instead o’ the boards, that I will. Bravo! he ought to be advertized—this style thirteen bob a week!”

“Thirteen bob a week!” laughed Harry; “who’d go for a soldier with such a prospect. Can you give us a job, governor?”

“Wait a bit, lads,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “there be another werse and then a chorus.”

“Hooray!” they shouted, “a chorus! let’s have the chorus—there ought to be a chorus—thirteen bob a week!”

“Now, gentlemen, the chorus if you please,” said Harry; “give it mouth, sir!”

Then sang Bumpkin—

“O ’edgin, ditchin, that’s the geaam,
All in the open air;
The poor man’s health is all his wealth,
But wealth without a care!

Chorus.

Then shout hurrah for Church and State
Though ’eretics may scoff,
The devil is our head Constable,
To take the willins off.

Give me the man that’s poor and strong,
Hard working and content;
Who looks on onger as his lot,
In Heaven’s wise purpose sent.
Who looks on riches as a snare
To ketch the worldly wise;
And good roast mutton as a dodge,
To blind rich people’s eyes.

Chorus.

Give me the man that labours hard
From mornin’ until night,
And looks at errins as a treat
And bacon a delight.
O ’edgin, ditchin, diggin drains,
And emptyin pool and dyke,
It beats your galloppin to ’ounds,
Your ball-rooms and the like.

Chorus.

Gi’ me the man that loves the Squire
With all his might and main;
And with the taxes and the rates
As never racks his brain.
Who loves the Parson and the Beak
As Heaven born’d and sent,
And revels in that blessed balm
A hongry sweet content.

Chorus.

Gie me the good Shaksperan man
As wants no other books,
But them as he no need to spell,
The ever runnin brooks:
As feeds the pigs and minds the flocks,
And rubs the orses down;
And like a regler lyal man,
Sticks up for Church and Crown.”

Chorus.

At the termination of this pastoral song there was such a hullabaloo of laughter, such a yelling, thumping, and, I grieve to say, swearing, that Mr. Bumpkin wondered what on earth was the occasion of it. At the Rent dinner at the Squire’s he had always sung it with great success; and the Squire himself had done him the honour to say it was the best song he had ever heard, while the Clergyman had assured him that the sentiments were so good that it ought to be played upon the organ when the people were coming out of church. And Farmer Grinddown, who was the largest gentleman farmer for miles around, had declared that if men would only act up to that it would be a happy country, and we should soon be able to defy America itself.

Mr. Bumpkin, hearing such shouts of laughter, thought perhaps he might have a patch of black on his face, and put his hand up to feel. Then he looked about him to see if his dress was disarranged; but finding nothing amiss, he candidly told them he “couldn’t zee what there wur to laugh at thic fashion.”

They all said it was a capital song, and wondered if he had any more of the same sort, and hoped he’d leave them a lock of his hair—and otherwise manifested tokens of enthusiastic approbation.

Mr. Bumpkin, however, could not quite see their mirth in the same light, so he turned on his heel and, beckoning to Joe, left the room in high dudgeon, not to say disdain.

“Mind Joe—no truck wi un.”

“Why, maister, he knows my sister.”

“Damn thee sister, Joe; it be a lie.”

“Be it? here’s some o’ the bacca he brought up from Okleton, I tell ee.”

“I tell thee, have nowt to do wi un; we shall be on t’morrer, we be tenth in the list.”

“Ay,” said Joe, “we bin igher in list un thic, we bin as near as eight; I shall be mighty glad when it be over.”

“An get back to pigs, aye, Joe?”

“Aye, maister.”

“Nothin like oame, Joe, be there?” and Mr. Bumpkin turned away.

“No,” said Joe; “no, maister, if so be” (and this was spoken to himself) “if so be you got a oame.”

Then I saw that Joe rejoined his companions, amongst whom a conversation was going on as to the merits of the song. Some said one thing and some another, but all condemned it as a regular toading to the Parson and the Squire: and as for the Beak, how any man could praise him whose only duty was to punish the common people, no one could see. The company were getting very comfortable. The Sergeant had called for another glass of that delectable grog whose very perfume seemed to inspire everyone with goodfellowship, and they all appeared to enjoy the Sergeant’s liquor without tasting it.

“What do you say to a game of dominoes?” said Harry.

“They won’t allow em ere,” said Lazyman.

“Won’t they,” answered Outofwork. “I’ll warrant if the Sergeant likes to play there’s no landlord’ll stop him, ay, Sergeant?”

“Well, I believe,” said the Sergeant, “as one of the Queen’s servants, I have the privilege of playing when I like.”

“Good,” said Harry, “and I’ll be a Queen’s man too, so out with the shilling, Sergeant.”

“Wait till the morning,” said the Sergeant.

“No,” said Harry. “I’ve had enough waiting. I’m on, give me the shilling.”

The Sergeant said, “Well, let me see, what height are you?” and he stood up beside him.

“Ah!” he said, “I think I can get you in,” saying which he gave him a shilling; such a bright coin, that it seemed to have come fresh from the Queen’s hand.

Then the Sergeant took out some beautiful bright ribbons which he was understood to say (but did not say) the Queen had given him that morning. Then he rang the bell, and the buxom waitress appearing he asked for the favour of a needle and thread, which, the radiant damsel producing, with her own fair fingers she sewed the ribbons on to Harry’s cap, smiling with admiration all the while. Even this little incident was not without its effect on the observant “head witness,” and he felt an unaccountable fascination to have the same office performed by the same fair hands on his own hat.

Then, without saying more, a box of dominoes was produced, and Joe soon found himself, he did not know how, the Sergeant’s partner, while Lazyman and Outofwork were opposed to them.

“Is it pooty good livin in your trade, Mr. Sergeant?” asked Joe.

“Not bad,” said the Sergeant; “that is five-one, I think”—referring to the play.

“Rump steaks and ingons aint bad living,” said Outofwork.

“No,” said the Sergeant, “and there’s nothing I like better than a good thick mutton chop for breakfast—let me see, what’s the game?”

“Ah!” said Joe, smacking his lips, “mutton chops is the best thing out; I aint had one in my mouth, though, for a doocid long time; I likes em with plenty o’ fat an gravy loike.”

“You see,” said the Sergeant, “when you’ve been out for a two or three mile ride before breakfast in the fresh country air, a chap wants something good for breakfast, and a mutton chop’s none too much for him.”

“No,” answered Joe, “I could tackle three.”

“Yes,” said Sergeant Goodtale, “but some are much larger than others.”

“So em be,” agreed Joe.

“What’s the game,” enquired the Sergeant.

“Two-one,” said Joe.

“One’s all,” said the soldier.

“I tell ee what,” remarked Joe, “if I was going to list, there’s no man as I’d liefer list wi than you, Mr. Sergeant.”

“Domino!” said the Sergeant, “that’s one to us, partner!”

Then they shuffled the dominoes and commenced again. But at this moment the full figure of Mr. Bumpkin again stood in the doorway.

“Joe!” he exclaimed angrily, “I want thee, come ere thirecly, I tell ee!”

“Yes, maister; I be comin.”

“You stoopid fool!” said Mr. Bumpkin in a whisper, as Joe went up to him, “thee be playin with thic feller.”

“Well, maister, if I be; what then?” Joe said this somewhat angrily, and Mr. Bumpkin replied:—

“He’ll ha thee, Joe—he’ll ha thee!”

“Nay, nay, maister; I be too old in the tooth for he; but it beant thy business, maister.”

“No,” said Bumpkin, as he turned away, “it beant.”

Then Joe resumed his play. Now it happened that as the Sergeant smacked his lips when he took his occasional sip of the fragrant grog, expressive of the highest relish, it awakened a great curiosity in Wurzel’s mind as to its particular flavour. The glass was never far from his nose and he had long enjoyed the extremely tempting odour. At last, as he was not invited to drink by Sergeant Goodtale, he could contain himself no longer, but made so bold as to say:—

“Pardner, med I jist taste this ere? I never did taste sich a thing.”

“Certainly, partner,” said the Sergeant, pushing the tumbler, which was about three-parts full. “What’s the game now?”

“Ten-one,” said Outofwork.

“One’s all, then,” said the Sergeant.

Joe took the tumbler, and after looking into it for a second or two as though he were mentally apostrophizing it, placed the glass to his lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the Sergeant.

No one seemed more courageous than Wurzel, in respect of the act with which he was engaged, and before he took the glass from his lips its contents had disappeared.

“I’m mighty glad thee spoke, Maister Sergeant, for if thee hadn’t I should a drunk un all wirout thy leave. I never tasted sich tackle in my life; it’s enough to make a man gie up everything for sogering.”

“Domino!” said the Sergeant. “I think that’s the game!”

* * * * *

“My dear,” said my wife, “you have been talking again in your sleep.”

“Really,” said I, “I hope I have not compromised myself.”

“I do not understand you,” cried she.

“No more do I, for I am hardly awake.”

“You have been talking of Joe Wurzel again.”

“O, to be sure. What about him?”

“Then you mentioned Mr. Outofwork and Mr. Lazyman and Mr. Devilmecare, and another whose name I did not catch.”

“Ah,” I asked, “did they go for soldiers?”

“At present, no, except Harry, for whom I was heartily sorry, he seemed such a nice disappointed lad. But pray who is this Sergeant Goodtale?”

“He is on recruiting service, a very fine, persuasive fellow.”

“But he didn’t seem to press these people or use any arts to entice them: I like him for that. He rather seemed to me to discourage them from enlisting. He might have been sure poor Harry meant it, because, as I take it, he was half-starved, and yet he desired him to wait till the morning.”

“I think,” said I, “his conduct was artful if you examine it with reference to its effect on the others; but he is an extraordinary man, this Sergeant Goodtale—was never known to persuade any one to enlist, I believe.”

“But he seemed to get along very well.”

“Very; I thought he got along very comfortably.”

“Then there was one Lucy Prettyface!”

“Ah, I don’t remember her,” cried I, alarmed lest I might have said anything in my dream for which I was not responsible.

“Why she was the girl who sewed the colours on and somebody called ‘my dear.’”

“I assure you,” I said, “it was not I: it must have been the Sergeant; but I have no recollection—O yes, to be sure, she was the waitress.”

“You remember her now?”

“Well,” said I, determined not to yield if I could possibly help it, “I can’t say that I do. I know there was a person who sewed colours on and whom the Sergeant called ‘my dear,’ but further than that I should not like to pledge myself. Yes—yes—to be sure,” and here I went on talking, as it were, to myself, for I find it is much better to talk to yourself if you find it difficult to carry on a conversation with other persons.

“She was pretty, wasn’t she?” said my wife with an arch look.

I gave her a look just as arch, as I replied,

“Really I hardly looked at her; but I should say not.” I make a point of never saying any one is pretty.

“Joe thought her so.”

“Did he? Well she may have been, but I never went in for Beauty myself.”

“You shocking man,” said my wife, “do you perceive what you are saying?”

“Why, of course; but you take me up so sharply: if you had not cut me off in the flower of my speech you would have been gratified at the finish of my sentence. I was going to say, I never went in for Beauty, but once. That, I think, gives the sentence a pretty turn.”

“Well, now, I think these dreams and this talking in your sleep indicate that you require a change; what do you say to Bournemouth?”

“You think I shall sleep better there?”

“I think it will do you good.”

“Then we’ll go to Bournemouth,” cried I, “for I understand it’s a very dreamy place.”

“But I should like to know what becomes of this action of Mr. Bumpkin, and how all his people get on? You may depend upon it that Sergeant will enlist those other men.”

“I do not know,” I remarked, “what is in the future.”

“But surely you know what you intend. You can make your characters do anything.”

“Indeed not,” I said. “They will have their own way whether I write their history or any one else.”

“That Sergeant Goodtale will have every one of them, my dear; you mark my words. He’s the most artful man I ever heard of.”

Of course I could offer no contradiction to this statement as I was not in the secrets of the future. How the matter will work out depends upon a variety of circumstances over which I have not the least control. For instance, if Bill were to take the shilling, I believe Dick would follow: and if the Sergeant were to sing a good song he might catch the rest. But who can tell?