And with that the gathering was well under weigh. Once one sheep

had started, others were ready enough to follow, and in a little time

I had at least the exterior aspect of the Skelmersdale affair.

Formerly, before he came to Bignor, he had been in that very similar

little shop at Aldington Corner, and there whatever it was did happen

had taken place. The story was clear that he had stayed out late

one night on the Knoll and vanished for three weeks from the sight

of men, and had returned with "his cuffs as clean as when he started,"

and his pockets full of dust and ashes. He returned in a state of

moody wretchedness that only slowly passed away, and for many days he

would give no account of where it was he had been. The girl he was

engaged to at Clapton Hill tried to get it out of him, and threw him

over partly because he refused, and partly because, as she said, he

fairly gave her the "'ump." And then when, some time after, he let out

to some one carelessly that he had been in Fairyland and wanted to go

back, and when the thing spread and the simple badinage of the

countryside came into play, he threw up his situation abruptly, and

came to Bignor to get out of the fuss. But as to what had happened in

Fairyland none of these people knew. There the gathering in the Village

Room went to pieces like a pack at fault. One said this, and another

said that.



Their air in dealing with this marvel was ostensibly critical and

sceptical, but I could see a considerable amount of belief showing

through their guarded qualifications. I took a line of intelligent

interest, tinged with a reasonable doubt of the whole story.



"If Fairyland's inside Aldington Knoll," I said, "why don't you dig it

out?"



"That's what I says," said the young ploughboy.



"There's a-many have tried to dig on Aldington Knoll," said the

respectable elder, solemnly, "one time and another. But there's

none as goes about to-day to tell what they got by digging."



The unanimity of vague belief that surrounded me was rather impressive;

I felt there must surely be SOMETHING at the root of so much conviction,

and the already pretty keen curiosity I felt about the real facts

of the case was distinctly whetted. If these real facts were to be

got from any one, they were to be got from Skelmersdale himself;

and I set myself, therefore, still more assiduously to efface

the first bad impression I had made and win his confidence to the pitch

of voluntary speech. In that endeavour I had a social advantage.

Being a person of affability and no apparent employment, and wearing

tweeds and knickerbockers, I was naturally classed as an artist

in Bignor, and in the remarkable code of social precedence prevalent

in Bignor an artist ranks considerably higher than a grocer's assistant.

Skelmersdale, like too many of his class, is something of a snob;



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