the men who were excitedly crowding around him what was wrong.
"Gie him a drop of liquor," suggested Kirke.
"I'm afraid he couldn't swallow it the state he's in," said Eddie, the barman.
"I'll see that he swallows it," said Kirke.
He approached Mr. Mayberry with a commanding look, but the tailor put up his hand to keep him off, looked imploringly at the others, and then got out the words:
"De-light—"
There was a sudden and spontaneous roar of laughter. So this was what all the anguish was about! Delight! Poor old Mayberry.
Mr. Mayberry glared at them. He was recovering himself. By the time the laughter had subsided he could speak coherently.
"Delight Mainprize. Some of the women folk—factory girls—Mrs. Jessop—ill-treating her in the field across the lagoon—my niece told me—she got scared and ran home. Men! They're ducking her—drowning her perhaps. I came here to see if she'd got back. Oh—what can I do?"
"Godamoighty!" shouted Lovering, "coom along, Duncan! Everybody! Lead the way, tailor, if you know where they've got the lass; coom on, boys." He stuffed his pipe into his pocket.
The tailor, suddenly galvanized into new life, sprang forward, tottering in a kind of anguished speed, like an autumn leaf in the gale. He was first into the hall, first out of the front door, first to round the corner by The Duke of York. The men nearest the window of that bar saw him pass, his thin hair flying, his spiderish legs almost doubling under him. And in his train stout Lovering, rushing like a curly polled bull; Kirke, in angular leaps,
