"Humph!" said Claude, who talks mysticism himself by the hour, but
snubs it in every one else. "It has trout, at least; and they stand,
I suppose, for its soul, as the raisins did for those of Jean Paul's
gingerbread bride and bridegroom and peradventure baby."

"Oh you materialist English! sporting-mad all of you, from the duke
who shooteth stags to the clod who poacheth rabbits!"

"And who therefore can fight Russians at Inkermann, duke and clod
alike, and side by side; never better (says the chronicler of old)
than in their first battle. I can neither fight nor fish, and on the
whole agree with you: but I think it proper to be as English as I can
in the presence of an American."

A whistle--a creak--a jar; and they stop at the little Whitford
station, where a cicerone for the vale, far better than Claude was,
made his appearance, in the person of Mark Armsworth, banker, railway
director, and _de facto_ king of Whitbury town, long since elected by
universal suffrage (his own vote included) as permanent _locum tenens_
of her gracious Majesty.

He hails Claude cheerfully from the platform, as he waddles about,
with a face as of the rising sun, radiant with good fun, good humour,
good deeds, good news, and good living. His coat was scarlet once; but
purple now. His leathers and boots were doubtless clean this morning;
but are now afflicted with elephantiasis, being three inches deep in
solid mud, which his old groom is scraping off as fast as he can. His
cap is duntled in; his back bears fresh stains of peat; a gentle rain
distils from the few angles of his person, and bedews the platform;
for Mark Armsworth has "been in Whit" to-day.