Rather to my surprise, the next morning passed off uneventfully. Ourknocker advertised no dun. Our lawn remained untrodden by hob-nailedboots. By lunch-time I had come to the conclusion that the expectedTrouble would not occur that day, and I felt that I might well leavemy post for the afternoon, while I went to the professor's to pay myrespects. The professor was out when I arrived. Phyllis was in, and itwas not till the evening that I started for the farm again.

　　As I approached, the sound of voices smote my ears.

　　I stopped. I could hear Beale speaking. Then came the rich notes ofVickers, the butcher. Then Beale again. Then Dawlish the grocer. Thena chorus.

　　The storm had burst, and in my absence.

　　I blushed for myself. I was in command, and I had deserted the fort intime of need. What must the faithful Hired Man be thinking of me?

　　Probably he placed me, as he had placed Ukridge, in the ragged ranksof those who have Shot the Moon.

　　Fortunately, having just come from the professor's I was in thecostume which of all my wardrobe was most calculated to impress. To acasual observer I should probably suggest wealth and respectability. Istopped for a moment to cool myself, for, as is my habit when pleasedwith life, I had been walking fast; then opened the gate and strodein, trying to look as opulent as possible.

　　It was an animated scene that met my eyes. In the middle of the lawnstood the devoted Beale, a little more flushed than I had seen himhitherto, parleying with a burly and excited young man without a coat.

　　Grouped round the pair were some dozen men, young, middle-aged, andold, all talking their hardest. I could distinguish nothing of whatthey were saying. I noticed that Beale's left cheekbone was a littlediscoloured, and there was a hard, dogged expression on his face. He,too, was in his shirt-sleeves.

　　My entry created no sensation. Nobody, apparently, had heard the latchclick, and nobody had caught sight of me. Their eyes were fixed on theyoung man and Beale. I stood at the gate, and watched them.

　　There seemed to have been trouble already. Looking more closely, Iperceived sitting on the grass apart a second young man. His face wasobscured by a dirty pocket handkerchief, with which he dabbed tenderlyat his features. Every now and then the shirt-sleeved young man flunghis hand towards him with an indignant gesture, talking hard thewhile. It did not need a preternaturally keen observer to deduce whathad happened. Beale must have fallen out with the young man who wassitting on the grass and smitten him; and now his friend had taken upthe quarrel"Now this," I said to myself, "is rather interesting. Here, in thisone farm, we have the only three known methods of dealing with duns.

　　Beale is evidently an exponent of the violent method. Ukridge is anapostle of Evasion. I shall try Conciliation. I wonder which of uswill be the most successful."Meanwhile, not to spoil Beale's efforts by allowing him too littlescope for experiment, I refrained from making my presence known, andcontinued to stand by the gate, an interested spectator.

　　Things were evidently moving now. The young man's gestures became morevigorous. The dogged look on Beale's face deepened. The comments ofthe Ring increased in point and pungency.

　　"What did you hit him for, then?"The question was put, always the same words and with the same air ofquiet triumph, at intervals of thirty seconds by a little man in asnuff-coloured suit with a purple tie. Nobody ever answered him, orappeared to listen to him, but he seemed each time to think that hehad clinched the matter and cornered his opponent.

　　Other voices chimed in.

　　"You hit him, Charlie. Go on. You hit him.""We'll have the law.""Go on, Charlie."Flushed with the favour of the many-headed, Charlie now proceeded fromthreats to action. His right fist swung round suddenly. But Beale wason the alert. He ducked sharply, and the next moment Charlie wassitting on the ground beside his fallen friend. A hush fell on theRing, and the little man in the purple tie was left repeating hisformula without support.

　　I advanced. It seemed to me that the time had come to be conciliatory.

　　Charlie was struggling to his feet, obviously anxious for a secondround, and Beale was getting into position once more. In another fiveminutes conciliation would be out of the question.

　　"What's all this?" I said.

　　I may mention here that I do not propose to inflict dialect upon thereader. If he had borne with my narrative thus far, I look on him as afriend, and feel that he deserves consideration. I may not havebrought out the fact with sufficient emphasis in the foregoing pages,but nevertheless I protest that I have a conscience. Not so much as a"thiccy" shall he find.

　　My advent caused a stir. Excited men left Beale, and rallied round me.

　　Charlie, rising to his feet, found himself dethroned from his positionof Man of the Moment, and stood blinking at the setting sun andopening and shutting his mouth. There was a buzz of conversation.

　　"Don't all speak at once, please," I said. "I can't possibly followwhat you say. Perhaps you will tell me what you want?"I singled out a short, stout man in grey. He wore the largest whiskersever seen on human face.

　　"It's like this, sir. We all of us want to know where we are.""I can tell you that," I said, "you're on our lawn, and I should bemuch obliged if you would stop digging your heels into it."This was not, I suppose, Conciliation in the strictest and best senseof the word; but the thing had to be said. It is the duty of everygood citizen to do his best to score off men with whiskers.

　　"You don't understand me, sir," he said excitedly. "When I said wedidn't know where we were, it was a manner of speaking. We want toknow how we stand.""On your heels," I replied gently, "as I pointed out before.""I am Brass, sir, of Axminster. My account with Mr. Ukridge is tenpounds eight shillings and fourpence. I want to know----"The whole strength of the company now joined in.

　　"You know me, Mr. Garnet. Appleby, in the High----" (Voice lost in thegeneral roar).

　　" . . . and eightpence.""My account with Mr. Uk . . ."" . . . settle . . .""I represent Bodger . . ."A diversion occurred at this point. Charlie, who had long been eyeingBeale sourly, dashed at him with swinging fists, and was knocked downagain. The whole trend of the meeting altered once more, Conciliationbecame a drug. Violence was what the public wanted. Beale had threefights in rapid succession. I was helpless. Instinct prompted me tojoin the fray; but prudence told me that such a course would be fatal.

　　At last, in a lull, I managed to catch the Hired Retainer by the arm,as he drew back from the prostrate form of his latest victim. "Dropit, Beale," I whispered hotly, "drop it. We shall never manage thesepeople if you knock them about. Go indoors, and stay there while Italk to them.""Mr. Garnet, sir," said he, the light of battle dying out of his eyes,"it's 'ard. It's cruel 'ard. I ain't 'ad a turn-up, not to /call/ aturn-up, since I've been a time-expired man. I ain't hitting of 'em,Mr. Garnet, sir, not hard I ain't. That there first one of 'em heplayed me dirty, hittin' at me when I wasn't looking. They can't sayas I started it.""That's all right, Beale," I said soothingly. "I know it wasn't yourfault, and I know it's hard on you to have to stop, but I wish youwould go indoors. I must talk to these men, and we shan't have amoment's peace while you're here. Cut along.""Very well, sir. But it's 'ard. Mayn't I 'ave just one go at thatCharlie, Mr. Garnet?" he asked wistfully.

　　"No, no. Go in.""And if they goes for you, sir, and tries to wipe the face off you?""They won't, they won't. If they do, I'll shout for you."He went reluctantly into the house, and I turned again to my audience.

　　"If you will kindly be quiet for a moment--" I said.

　　"I am Appleby, Mr. Garnet, in the High Street. Mr. Ukridge--""Eighteen pounds fou............