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 another, each thinking that the other must have run against him on purpose. It is great fun to look at a jingling-match, certainly, and Tom shouts, and jumps on old Benjy's shoulders at the sight, until the old man feels weary and shifts him to the strong young shoulders of the groom, who has just got down to the fun.

And now, while they are climbiing the pole in another part of the field, and muzzling in a flour-tub in another, the old farmer whose house, as has been said, overlooks the field, and who is master of the revels, gets up the steps onto the stage and announces to all whom it may concern that a half-sovereign in money will be forthcoming for the old gamester who breaks most heads; to which the squire and he have added a new hat.

The amount of the prize is sufficient to stimulate the men of the immediate neighborhood, but not enough to bring any very high talent from a distance; so, after a glance or two round, a tall fellow, who is a down shepherd, chucks his hat onto the stage and climbs up the steps looking rather sheepish. The crowd, of course, first cheer, and then chaff as usual, as he picks up his hat and begins handling the sticks to see which will suit him.

"Wooy, Willum Smith, thee cans't plaay wi' he arra daay," says his companion to the blacksmith's apprentice, a stout young fellow of nineteen or twenty. Willum's sweetheart is in the "veast" somewhere, and has strictly enjoined him not to get his head broke at back-swording, on pain of her highest displeasure; but as she is not to be seen (the women pretend not to like to see the back-sword play, and keep away from the stage), and as his hat is decidedly getting old, he chucks it onto the stage, and follows himself, hoping that he will only have to break other people's heads, or that, after all, Rachel won't really mind.

Then follows the greasy cap lined with fur of a half-gypsy, poaching, loafing fellow, who travels the Vale not for much good, I fancy: