ancient wooden pump. There was no schoolhouse or kirk; not even a
post-office--only a red box in a cottage side. Beyond rose the high
wall and the dark trees of the demesne, and to the right up a by-road
which clung to the park edge stood a two-storeyed building which bore
the legend "The Cruives Inn."

The Poet became lyrical. "At last!" he cried. "The village of my
dreams! Not a sign of commerce! No church or school or beastly
recreation hall! Nothing but these divine little cottages and an
ancient pub! Dogson, I warn you, I'm going to have the devil of a
tea." And he declaimed:


"Thou shalt hear a song
After a while which Gods may listen to;
But place the flask upon the board and wait
Until the stranger hath allayed his thirst,
For poets, grasshoppers, and nightingales
Sing cheerily but when the throat is moist."

Dickson, too, longed with sensual gusto for tea. But, as they drew
nearer, the inn lost its hospitable look. The cobbles of the yard
were weedy, as if rarely visited by traffic, a pane in a window was
broken, and the blinds hung tattered. The garden was a wilderness,
and the doorstep had not been scoured for weeks. But the place had
a landlord, for he had seen them approach and was waiting at the
door to meet them.

He was a big man in his shirt sleeves, wearing old riding breeches
unbuttoned at the knees, and thick ploughman's boots. He had no