A large Fair Trade meeting had been held at Plymouth the
night before, and three farmers in the compartment with me were
discussing that morning's leader in the _Western Daily Mercury_. One
of them had already been goaded into violent speech when we halted at
Newton Abbot and another passenger stepped in--a little old man in a
suit of black.
I recognised him at once. And yet he was changed woefully. He had
fallen away in flesh; the lines had deepened beside his upper lip; and
in spite of a glossier suit he had an appearance of hopelessness which
he had not worn when I saw him for the first time.
He took his seat, looked about him vacantly and caught the eye of the
angry farmer, who nodded, broke off his speech in the middle of a
sentence, and asked in a curiously gentle voice--
"Travellin' up to Exeter?"
The old man bent his head for "yes," and I saw the tears well up in
his weak eyes.
"There's no need vur to ax your arrand." The farmer here dropped his
tone almost to a whisper.
"Naw, naw. I be goin' up to berry 'en. Ees, vriends," he went on,
looking around and asking, with that glance, the sympathy of all
present, "to berry my zon, my clever zon, my only zon.
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