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The parson was unbuckling his pads on a bench
near by, and I was close enough to observe the un-
evangelical expression on his face as he looked up
from under the brim of his panama hat with the
M.C.CL ribbon round it. Mr. Yalden was not a popular
character on the But ley ground, and the hobbledehoy
had made the most of a heaven-sent opportunity.

From an undersized platform in front of the
Horticultural Tent the Butley brass band now struck
up 'The Soldiers of the Queen". It's quite like
playing in a county match, I thought, as I scanned
the spectators, who were lining the fence on two sides
of the field. Several easily recognizable figures from
among the local gentry were already sauntering
toward the Tea Tent, after a gossiping inspection of
the Flower Show. I could sec slow-moving Major
Carmine, the bast dressed man in Butley, with his
white spats and a carnation in his buttonhole; and
the enthusiastic, curate, known as "Hard Luck" on
account ofhis habit of exclaiming, "Oh, hard luck!"
when watching or taking part in games of cricket,
lawn tennis, or hockey. He was escorting the Miss
Pattons, two elderly sisters who always dressed alike.
And there was Aunt Evelyn, with her red sunshade up,
walking between rosy-faced old Captain Huxtable
and his clucking, oddly dressed wife. It was quite a
brilliant scene which the Butley Band was doing its
utmost to sustain with experimental and unconvincing
tootles and drum-beatings.

Soon afterwards, however, the Soldiers of the Queen
were overwhelmed by the steam-organ which, after
a warning hoot, began to accompany the revolving
wooden horses of the gilded roundabout with a
strident and blaring fanfaronade. For a minute or
two the contest of cacophonies continued. But in