And how completely he felt at home.

He rode along the old pike through Westways, nodding to Mrs.Lamb, the mother of the scamp whom the Squire was every now and then saving from the consequences of the combination of a revengeful nature and bad whisky.

Then Billy hailed John with malicious simplicity.
"Halloa!--John--can't swim--can't swim--ho, ho!" The butcher's small boy was loading meat on a cart.

John stayed to say a word to him, pleased to have the chance, as the boy grinned at Billy's mocking malice.

"Halloa! Pole," he called.