That was his plain of Troy, his Field of Cressy, his lists of Ashby de la Zouche.

The high road at the back of the towans crossed a stream, by a ford and a footbridge; and the travelling postman, if he had any letters for the Parsonage, would stop by the footbridge and blow a horn.

He little guessed what challenges it sounded to the small boy who came running for the post.
The postman came by, as a rule, at two o'clock or thereabouts.
One afternoon in early spring Mr.Raymond happened to be starting for a walk when the horn was blown, and he and Taffy went to meet the post together.

There were three or four letters which the Vicar opened; and one for Humility, which he put in his pocket.

In the midst of his reading, he looked up, smiled over his spectacles, and said: "Oxford has won the boat-race." Taffy had been deep in the Fifth Aeneid for some weeks, and boat-racing ran much in his mind.
"Who is Oxford ?" he asked.
Mr.Raymond took off his spectacles and wiped them.