Dialogues followed, more or less in the subjoined form:-- "Where do you come from ?" "Norcombe." "That's a long way.
"Fifteen miles." "Who's farm were you upon last ?" "My own." This reply invariably operated like a rumour of cholera.

The inquiring farmer would edge away and shake his head dubiously.
Gabriel, like his dog, was too good to be trustworthy, and he never made advance beyond this point.
It is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, and extemporize a procedure to fit it, than to get a good plan matured, and wait for a chance of using it.

Gabriel wished he had not nailed up his colours as a shepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in the whole cycle of labour that was required in the fair.

It grew dusk.
Some merry men were whistling and singing by the corn-exchange.
Gabriel's hand, which had lain for some time idle in his smock-frock pocket, touched his flute which he carried there.

Here was an opportunity for putting his dearly bought wisdom into practice.
He drew out his flute and began to play "Jockey to the Fair" in the style of a man who had never known moment's sorrow.