fields; I interviewed them on my round, and inquired what they thought
of London. They had much enjoyed the day, and were greatly struck by
the fact that the barmaid, at the place where they had eaten the lunch
they took with them, had recognized them as "Oostershire men"; they
had demanded their beer in three or four quart jugs, which could be
handed round so that each man could take a pull in turn, instead of
the usual fashion of separate glasses, and it appeared that this
indicated the locality from whence they came. Probably she had noticed
their accent, and, being a native of Worcestershire, remembered their
intimate drinking custom as a county peculiarity. The men proceeded to
describe the sights of London, and one of them added that there was
one thing they could not find there, stopping suddenly in some
confusion. I pressed him to explain. He still hesitated, and, turning
to the others, said: "_You_ tell the master, Bill." Bill was not so
diffident. "Well," he said, "we couldn't see a good-looking 'ooman in
Lunnon; for Jarge here, 'e was judge over 'em for a bit, and then Tom
'e took it, nor 'e couldn't see one neither!"

Jarge was somewhat of a _bon vivant_, and much appreciated my annual
present of a piece of Christmas beef. When thanking me and descanting
upon its tenderness and acceptability, on one occasion, he continued,
"It ain't like the sort of biff we folks has to put up with, that
tough you has to set in the middle of the room at dinner, for fear you
might daish your brains out agen the wall a-tuggin' at it with your
teeth!"

Jarge had one song and only one that I ever heard, and he was always
called upon for it at harvest suppers and other jollifications; it was
not a classic, but he rendered it with characteristic drollery, and
always brought down the house. I conclude my sketch of him by