great house. And Mr. Wedmore, full of his fancy for the grand old
medieval Christmas festivities, hugged to his heart the thought of
holding such revels as should make Christmas at The Beeches an
institution in the countryside.

But, alas! the London merchant had become a country gentleman too late
in life to appreciate the great gulf which lies between the
sixteenth-century peasant (of the modern imagination) and the
nineteenth-century villager of actual fact. His own small army from the
stable and the garden were powerless to cope with the disorderly mob
they had been encouraged to invite in this interesting celebration. And
those most mischievous and conspicuous roughs whom the coachman had
driven off with the whip on the way up, revenged themselves for this
drastic treatment by coming in through the front gate of the park,
breaking down the fence between park and garden, and every obstacle to
their barbaric progress.

It was "Poaching Wilson" who pulled the bell, after some difficulty in
finding the handle, owing to the liberality with which he had "treated
himself" as a preparation for the journey.

Max, alarmed at the invasion, had made his way round to the
billiard-room door at the back, bolted it on the inside, and hastened to
give directions to the servants to lock all the other doors, and to
secure the ground-floor windows.

Then he rushed into the hall, just as his father had come out from the
dining-room, serviette in hand, to learn the cause of the noise outside.

"Hello, Max! Is it you back again? And have you brought down half the