Retracing his steps, the boy once more joined the crowd, and wormed his
way through its now silent ranks until he came within sight of the
assembly room. But if he had wished to hear Clive's speech of thanks, he
was too late. As he arrived, applause greeted the hero's final words, and
he resumed his seat. To the speeches that followed, no heed was paid by
the populace; words from the vicar and the local attorney had no novelty
for them. But they waited, gossiping among themselves, until the
festivity was over and the party broke up.
More shouts arose as the great man appeared at the inn door. Horses were
there in waiting; a hundred hands were ready to hold the stirrup for
Clive; but he mounted unassisted and rode off in company with Sir Philip
Chetwode, a neighboring squire whose guest he was. When the principal
figure had gone, the throng rapidly melted away, and soon the street had
resumed its normal quiet.
The boy was among the last to quit the scene. Walking slowly down the
road, he overtook a bent old man in the smock of a farm laborer, trudging
along alone.
"Hey, Measter Desmond," said the old man, "I feels for tha, that I do. I
seed yer brother theer, eatin' an' drinkin' along wi' the noble general,
an' thinks I, 'tis hard on them as ha' to look on, wi' mouths a-waterin'
fur the vittles an' drink. But theer, I'd be afeard to set lips to some
o' them kickshawses as goes down into the nattlens o' high folk, an', all
said an' done, a man canna be more'n full, even so it bin wi' nowt but
turmuts an' Cheshire cheese.
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