"But, bless ya! all eggs binna addled. General Clive here--'twere the
Injun sun what hatched he, an' binna he, I axe ya, a rare young fightin'
cock? Ay, and a good breed, too. A hunnerd year ago theer was a Bob Clive
as med all our grandfeythers quake in mortal fear, a terrible man o' war
was he. They wanted to put 'n into po'try an' the church sarvice.

"'From Wem and from Wyche
An' from Clive o' the Styche,
Good Lord, deliver us.'

"That's what they thought o' the Bob Clive o' long ago. Well, this Bob
Clive now a-sittin' at my elbow be just as desp'rate a fighter, an'
thankful let us all be, neebors, as he does his fightin' wi' the
black-faced Injuns an' the black-hearted French, an' not the peaceful
bide-at-homes o' Market Drayton."

The little bailiff paused to moisten his lips. From his audience arose
feeling murmurs of approval.

"Ya known what General Clive ha' done," he resumed. "'Twas all read out
o' prent by the crier in corn market. An' the grand folks in Lun'on ha'
give him a gowd sword, an' he bin hob-a-nob wi' King Jarge hisself. An'
us folks o' Market Drayton take it proud, we do, as he be come to see us
afore he goes back to his duty.

"Theer's a example fur you boys. Theer be limbs o' mischief in Market
Drayton yet.

"Ay, I see tha' 'Lijah Notcutt, a-hangin' on to winder theer. I know who
wringed the neck o' Widder Peplow's turkey.