A really noteworthy thing was taking place in a green lane, not far from
Padwick. On the bench of a carrier's cart there sat a tow-headed, lanky,
modest-looking youth; the reins were on his lap; the whip lay behind
him in the interior of the cart; the horse proceeded without guidance
or encouragement; the carrier (or the carrier's man), rapt into a higher
sphere than that of his daily occupations, his looks dwelling on the
skies, devoted himself wholly to a brand-new D penny whistle, whence he
diffidently endeavoured to elicit that pleasing melody 'The Ploughboy'.
To any observant person who should have chanced to saunter in that lane,
the hour would have been thrilling. 'Here at last,' he would have said,
'is the beginner.'
The tow-headed youth (whose name was Harker) had just encored himself
for the nineteenth time, when he was struck into the extreme of
confusion by the discovery that he was not alone.
'There you have it!' cried a manly voice from the side of the road.
'That's as good as I want to hear. Perhaps a leetle oilier in the run,'
the voice suggested, with meditative gusto.
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