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of the family of which the village was mainly composed, he considered himself a sort of mayor, and his rural dignity was enhanced by a curious sententiousness of utterance.
    â€˜You come upon me unawares,’ he said. ‘I was sayin’ over a few words I be goin’ to speak this afternoon.’
    â€˜Really?’ Mr Campion appeared to be interested. ‘You’re thinking of making a speech of welcome, George?’
    â€˜Summat like that,’ conceded the old man graciously. ‘Me and the rector was ’avin a talk. ’E was for singin’. And me bein’ churchwarden, seems only right, seems, I should do the greetin’. Him bein’ a foreigner, ’e mightn’t understand the others.’
    â€˜There’s something in that, of course,’ said Mr Campion, who had followed the old man’s reasoning with difficulty.
    George continued.
    â€˜I put on some new clo’es. Seems like ’tis a good idea to look smart. I be a wunnerful smart old man, don’t you think?’
    He turned himself about for Mr Campion’s inspection. He was dressed in a pair of tight corduroy trousers which had once been brown, but were now washed to creamy whiteness, a bright blue collarless gingham shirt, and one of his late master’s white waistcoats which hung loosely round his spare stomach. His straw hat, built on the Panama principle, had a black ribbon round it and a bunch of jay’s feathers tucked into the bow.
    â€˜How’s that?’ he demanded with badly concealed pride.
    â€˜Very fine,’ agreed the young man. ‘All the same, I wouldn’t make your speech if I were you, George. I was coming down to have a talk with you about this business. Aren’t there some customs, maypolings and whatnot, suitable for this afternoon?’
    The old man pushed back his straw hat, revealing an unexpectedly bald head, the crown of which he rubbed meditatively with the edge of his hat.
    â€˜Not give the speech?’ he said with disappointment. ‘Oh well, sir, I reckon you know best. But I’d ’ave done it right well, that I would. I do be a powerful talkative old man. But the time for maypolin’s past,’ he went on, ‘and Pharisees’ Day, that ain’t come yet.’
    The young man sighed. ‘None of these – er – feasts are movable?’ he suggested hopefully.
    George shook his head. ‘No, you can’t alter they days. Not for nobody,’ he added with decision.
    Mr Campion regarded the old man with great solemnity. ‘George,’ he said, ‘take my advice and make an effort. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you could think of some sort of turnip-blessing ceremony. You’re a smart man, George.’
    â€˜Aye,’ said the old man with alacrity, and remained in deep thought for some time. ‘No, there be nothin’,’ he said at last. ‘Nothin’ but maybe the Seven Whistlers.’
    â€˜Seven Whistlers?’ said Mr Campion with interest. ‘What’s that? Who are they?’
    The old man studied his hat intently for some time before replying. ‘Seven Whistlers, sir,’ he said at last. ‘No one knows if they be ghosts or Pharisees – that be fairies, if you take me. You ’ear ’em passin’ overhead about this time of year. Whistlin’. Least, you only ’ears six on ’em. The seventh’s got a kind o’ whoop in it, trailin’ away like a barn owl, terrible to ’ear, and when you ’ears that, that’s the end of the world. Only no one’s ever ’eard it yet.’
    â€˜That sounds all right,’ said Mr Campion. ‘But it doesn’t get us more forrarder, does it, George?’
    An unexpectedly crafty expression appeared upon the old man’s venerable face. ‘Toime was,’ he said, ‘when the old squoire used to give a barrel o’ beer for they Seven Whistlers. Just about