At dusk that same evening the two had started for the village fair.

A velveteen shooting-jacket, a pair of corduroy trousers, and a waistcoat, furnished by Tregarva, covered with flowers of every imaginable hue, tolerably disguised Lancelot, who was recommended by his conductor to keep his hands in his pockets as much as possible, lest their delicacy, which was, as it happened, not very remarkable, might betray him.

As they walked together along the plashy turnpike road, overtaking, now and then, groups of two or three who were out on the same errand as themselves, Lancelot could not help remarking to the keeper how superior was the look of comfort in the boys and young men, with their ruddy cheeks and smart dresses, to the worn and haggard appearance of the elder men.
'Let them alone, poor fellows,' said Tregarva; 'it won't last long.

When they've got two or three children at their heels, they'll look as thin and shabby as their own fathers.' 'They must spend a great deal of money on their clothes.' 'And on their stomachs, too, sir.

They never lay by a farthing; and I don't see how they can, when their club-money's paid, and their insides are well filled.' 'Do you mean to say that they actually have not as much to eat after they marry ?' 'Indeed and I do, sir.