"Dear me, dear me!" he fussed. "Whatever does this mean? Is everybody mad?"
"Either that or intoxicated, doctor. I'm not a medical man. I've sent for my fire-hose." There was a note of grim malevolence in Lady Knob-Kerrick's voice.
"Your fire-hose? I—I don't understand!" The doctor removed his panama and mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief.
"You will when it comes," was the reply.
"Dear me, dear me!" broke out the alarmed doctor; "but surely you're not"
"I am," interrupted Lady Knob-Kerrick. "I most certainly am. It's my meadow."
"Dear me! I must enquire into this. Dear me!" And the doctor trotted off in the direction of the maypole. The first object he encountered was the prostrate form of the vicar, who lay under the shadow of a refreshment-stall, breathing heavily. The doctor shook him.
"Slocum," he called. "Slocum!"
"Goo' fellow tha'," was the mumbled response. "Make himmy curate. Go 'way."
"Good God!" ejaculated the doctor. "He's drunk. They're all drunk. What a scandal."
He sat down beside the vicar, trying to think. He was stunned. Eventually he was aroused from his torpor of despair by a carelessly flung cokernut hitting him sharply on the elbow. He looked round quickly to admonish the culprit. At that moment he caught sight of the Rev.
