It was a mellow day in October 1760, a little more than six years since
the day when Market Drayton gave rein to its enthusiasm in honor of
Clive. From a flagstaff newly erected on the roof of the Four Alls on the
Newport Road, a square of bunting flapped in the breeze. Inside the inn
the innkeeper was drawing a pint of ale for his one solitary customer, a
shambling countryman with a shock of very red hair, and eyes of innocent
blue.
"There, that makes a quart, Tummus Biles, and 'tis as much as your turnip
head can safely carry."
He passed the can across the bar on a hook that projected from a wooden
socket in his sleeve.
"Why, now, Mr. Bulger," said Tummus, the tranter, "what fur do you go fur
to miscall me like other fowk? I've been miscalled ever since that day I
drove a stranger into Market Drayton six year ago. I mind me he had a red
feather in his cap, and not knowing my name was plain Tummus, he called
me Jehu, he did, and I never forgot it. Ay, and I tell ya what, Mr.
Bulger: it took me two year to find out why he give me such an uncommon
name. I mind I was sittin' by a hayrick of Mr. Burke's--that was long
afore he was lamed by that terrible horse o' his--and ponderin' on that
heathen name, when all at once it comed to me like a flash o' lightnin'.
"'Jehu!' says I to myself. 'I've got ya at last.' Ya see, when that
stranger saw me, I were drivin' a horse. Well, I says to my horse,
'Gee-ho!' says I. Not knowing my true chrisom name, the stranger takes up
my words an' fits 'em to me.
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