THE "YELLOW DRAGON"
Spargo, his clothes, away the of his journey, in that old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, his mind in on his plan of in Market Milcaster. He had no particularly clear plan. The one thing he was of was that in the old leather box which the man he as John Marbury had deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he and Rathbury had one of the old of Market Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market Milcaster, with the full of his editor, in an to it. How was he going to set about this difficult task?
"The thing," said Spargo to himself as he a new tie, "is to have a look round. That'll be no long job."
For he had already as he approached the town, and as he from the station to the "Yellow Dragon" Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a very small place. It of one long, wide thoroughfare—the High Street—with smaller leading from it on either side. In the High Street to be that the town show—the church, the town hall, the market cross, the houses and shops, the bridge, which ran the river ships had once come up to the town its mouth, four miles away, up. It was a bright, clean, little town, but there were of in it, and Spargo had been quick to notice that in the "Yellow Dragon," a big, old hostelry, of the old days, there to be little doing. He had a of in the coffee-room on his arrival; the coffee-room was big to a hundred and fifty people, but himself, an old and his daughter, tourists, two men talking golf, a man who looked like an artist, and an couple, there was no one in it. There was little traffic in the wide Spargo's windows; little passage of people to and on the sidewalks; here a a lazy cow as along; there a farmer in his light sat with an tradesman, who had come out of his shop to talk to him. Over the of the of the afternoon, and through the open a faint, sweet of the new-mown in the the old houses.
"A Sleepy Hollow," Spargo. "Let's go and see if there's to talk to. Great Scott!—to think that I was in the of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!"
Spargo, after himself in and passages, in the wide, stone-paved of the old hotel, and with a sure into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was and with the of country-town hotels. There were old chairs and tables and and cupboards, which had been a century before, and likely to for a century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced in pink coats; there were foxes' on the wall, and a in a case on a side-table; there were on the and an snuff-box set them. Also there was a small, old-fashioned in a of the room, and a new-fashioned woman seated it, who was over a piece of needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have looked at Perseus when he at her rock. And Spargo, himself to a drink and a cigar to it, noted the look, and into the nearest chair.
"This," he remarked, the with enquiry, "appears to me to be a very place."
"Quiet!" the lady. "Quiet?"
"That," Spargo, "is what I observed. Quiet. I see that you agree with me. You your agreement with two of emphasis, the and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, that the place is quiet."
The looked at Spargo as if she him in the light of a new specimen, and up her she the and out into the room took a chair near his own.
"It makes you to see a go by here," she remarked.
"It's about all that one see."
"Are there many?" asked Spargo. "Do the die much of inanition?"
The gave Spargo another inspection.
"Oh, you're joking!" she said. "It's well you can. Nothing here. This place is a number."
"Even the numbers make reading at times," Spargo. "And the of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this town, then?" he added in a louder voice.
"Nothing!" his companion. "It's fast asleep. I came here from Birmingham, and I didn't know what I was to. In Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months."
"Ah!" said Spargo. "What you are from is dulness. You must have an antidote."
"Dulness!" the damsel. "That's the right word for Market Milcaster. There's just a regular old in here of a morning, eleven and one. A looks in—perhaps the afternoon. Then, at night, a of old that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!—what they want in Market Milcaster is new times."
Spargo up his ears.
"Well, but it's to old talk about old times," he said. "I love it!"
"Then you can as much of it as you want here," the barmaid. "Look in tonight any time after eight o'clock, and if you don't know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old in here every night, regular as clockwork, who to that they couldn't go to unless they've told each other about old days which I should think they've a thousand times already!"
"Very old men?" asked Spargo.
"Methuselahs," the lady. "There's old Mr. Quarterpage, across the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn't do any now—they say he's ninety, though I'm sure you wouldn't take him for more than seventy. And there's Mr. Lummis, the street—he's eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye—they're regular patriarchs. I've sat here and to them till I I a history of Market Milcaster since the year One."
"I can of that as a and occupation," said
Spargo.
He a while longer in a fashion calculated to the barmaid's spirits, after which he out and around the town until seven o'clock, the "Dragon's" hour for dinner. There were no more people in the big coffee-room than there had been at and Spargo was glad, when his was over, to to the bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a near to that part in which the old had been reported to him to sit.
"And mind you don't in one of their chairs," said the barmaid, warningly. "They all have their own special chairs and their special pipes there on that rack, and I the would in if touched pipe or chair. But you're all right there, and you'll all they've got to say."
To Spargo, who had anything of the before, and who, twenty-four hours previously, would have the thing impossible, the of that in the bar-parlour of the "Yellow Dragon" at Market Milcaster were like a to the eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock eight and a to in the of the High Street, an old walked in, and the barmaid, Spargo's eye, gave him a which that the play was about to begin.
"Good evening, Mr. Kaye," said the barmaid. "You're tonight."
"Evening," said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, around him, and silent. He was a tall, old gentleman, in black clothes, with a pointed up on of his of and a black times his neck, and by the of his was to look on life severely. "Nobody been in yet?" asked Mr. Kaye. "No, but here's Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene," the barmaid.
Two more old entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a little, dapper-figured man, in of an cut, and of very loud pattern; he a necktie, a flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he at a angle. The other was a big, portly, man with a Falstaffian and a eye, who the as he entered, and gave her a good-humoured under the as he passed her. These two also into chairs which to have been designed to meet them, and the man the arms of his as as he had the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies.
"Well?" he said, "Here's three of us. And there's a symposium."
"Wait a bit, wait a bit," said the little man. "Grandpa'll be here in a minute. We'll start fair."
The out of the window.
"There's Mr. Quarterpage across the now," she announced.
"Shall I put the on the table?"
"Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!" the man. "Have all in readiness."
The a table the chairs, set out upon it a old punch-bowl and the for making punch, a box of cigars, and an old tobacco-box, and she had just this to the evening's when the door opened again and in walked one of the most old men Spargo had seen. And by this time, that this was the Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of Crowfoot had told him, he took good stock of the as he took his place his friends, who on their part him with of which were positively boyish.
Mr. Quarterpage was a of ninety—a middle-sized, sturdily-built man, as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed, and of voice. His clean-shaven old was as a sun-warmed pippin; his was still only silvered; his hand was as a rock. His of buff-coloured were and jaunty, his as as if he had been going to a fair. It to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a long of life him at his age.
Spargo, in his corner, sat while the old their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them—the five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage the with all and ceremony; when it was out each man his pipe or took a cigar, and the to wag. Other came and went; the old were of anything but their own talk. Now and then a of the town in to take his half-pint of and to in the presence of the barmaid; such looked with at the patriarchs: as for the themselves they were in the past.
Spargo to what the the meant when she said that she she a history of Market Milcaster since the year One. After the weather, the local events of the day, and personal matters, the old got to of the past, telling after tale, upon of long years before. At last they to memories of days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo on a stroke. Now was the time to some information. Taking the ticket from his purse, he it, the device uppermost, on the of his hand, and the group with a bow, said quietly:
"Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?"
