Durgan really was extraordinarily good—extraordinarily good. You intend to give us a good deal of your time here I hope."
"I mean to do my duty by the Parish," said my uncle.
"I'm sincerely glad to hear it—sincerely. We've missed—the house influence. An English village isn't complete. People get out of hand. Life grows dull. The young people drift away to London."
He enjoyed his cigar gingerly for a moment.
"We shall look to you to liven things up," he said,—poor man!
My uncle cocked his cigar and removed it from his mouth.
"Whad you think the place wants?" he asked.
He did not wait for an answer. "I been thinking while you been talking—things one might do. Cricket—a good English game—sports. Build the chaps a pavilion perhaps. Then every village ought to have a miniature rifle range."
"Ye-ees," said the vicar. "Provided, of course, there isn't a constant popping." . . .
"Manage that all right," said my uncle. "Thing'd be a sort of long shed. Paint it red. British colour. Then there's a Union Jack for the church and the village school. Paint the school red too, p'raps. Not enough colour about now. Too grey. Then a maypole."
"How far our people would take up that sort of thing" began the vicar.
"I'm all for getting that good old English spirit back again," said my uncle. "Merrymakings. Lads and lasses dancing on the village green. Harvest home. Fairings. Yule Log—all the rest of it."
