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A week later Mr. Ruddiman again ascended the hill, and, after listening patiently to the narrative which he had heard fifty times, came to an arrangement with Mr. Fouracres about the room he wished to rent for the holidays. The terms were very moderate, and the under-master congratulated himself on this prudent step. He felt sure that a couple of months at the Pig and Whistle would be anything but disagreeable. The situation was high and healthy; the surroundings were picturesque. And for society, well, there was Miss Fouracres, whom Mr. Ruddiman regarded as a very sensible and pleasant person.

Of course, no one at Longmeadows had an inkling of the under-master’s intention. On the day of ‘breaking up’ he sent his luggage, as usual, to the nearest railway station, and that same evening had it conveyed by carrier to the little wayside inn, where, much at ease in mind and body, he passed his first night.

He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader. In the garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, and there, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in the golden age. Now and then he tried to awaken his host’s interest in questions of national finance. It was one of Mr. Ruddiman’s favourite amusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his own financial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament. All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, and his mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus be added to the national wealth. But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemed trivial. A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimes giving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygone glories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge.

Much more satisfactory were the conversations between Mr. Ruddiman and his host’s daughter; they were generally concerned with the budget, not of the nation, but of the Pig and Whistle. Miss Fouracres was a woman of much domestic ability; she knew how to get the maximum of comfort out of small resources. But for her the inn would have been a wretched little place–as, indeed, it was before her time. Miss Fouracres worked hard and prudently. She had no help; the garden, the poultry, all the cares of house and inn were looked after by her alone–except, indeed, a few tasks beyond her physical strength, which were disdainfully performed by the landlord. A pony and cart served chiefly to give Mr. Fouracres an airing when his life of sedentary dignity grew burdensome. One afternoon, when he had driven to the market town, his daughter and her guest were in the garden together, gathering broad beans and gossiping with much contentment.

‘I wish I could always live here!’ exclaimed Mr. Ruddiman, after standing for a moment with eyes fixed meditatively upon a very large pod which he had just picked.

Miss Fouracres looked at him as if in surprise, her left hand clasping her chin.

‘Ah, you’d soon get tired of it, sir.’

‘I shouldn’t! No, I’m sure I shouldn’t. I like this life. It suits me. I like it a thousand times better than teaching in a school.’

‘That’s your fancy, sir.’

As Miss Fouracres spoke a sound from the house drew her attention; some one had entered the inn.

‘A customer?’ said Mr. Ruddiman. ‘Let me go and serve him–do let me!’

‘But you wouldn’t know how, sir.’

‘If it’s beer, and that’s most likely, I know well enough. I’ve watched you so often. I’ll go and see.’

With the face of a schoolboy he ran into the house, and was absent about ten minutes. Then he reappeared, chinking coppers in his hand and laughing gleefully.

‘A cyclist! Pint of half-and-half! I served him as if I’d done nothing else all my life.’