Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

landlord caught Mr Franklin’s eye. “Used to be a biggish family, sir, in the old days. None left now. Wait, though – ain’t there Franklins over at Hingham?” His question hung unanswered in the silence, and Mr Franklin waited hopefully. The silence continued, and finally he broke it himself, indicating to the landlord that another round would be welcome. The tankards were thrust forward again and withdrawn, replenished; there were salutary murmurs in his direction, but beyond that nothing audible except the occasional gurgle and sigh as another gallon of home-brewed descended to its several resting-places. Mr Franklin decided that Prior’s brief conversational flight had probably exhausted the Apple Tree’s store of small talk as far as he was concerned, so he drained his glass, not without some effort, and remarked that he must be getting along.

      Again he sensed the relieved shuffling, but even as he straightened his coat and prepared to nod to the landlord, Prior took a deep breath and said:

      “You’ll have another, first – sir? On me, like.” Mr Franklin hesitated. With three pints of home-brewed inside him, backing and filling, he felt he had as much as he wanted to carry, and more. It was on the tip of his tongue to decline politely. Then he saw that Prior was standing rather straight, with sweat on his red forehead, and knew that the invitation had been made with considerable effort. Instinctively he sensed that Prior, while a labourer like his fellows, was perhaps of some standing in that humble company, and was in a curious way asserting his dignity; for Prior’s credit, it would be right to accept.

      “Thank you, Mr Prior,” he said. “That’s kind of you.”

      “Jack,” said Mr Prior, and laid his coppers carefully on the counter; his glass and Mr Franklin’s only were refilled, although Jake ostentatiously drained his few remaining drops, waited hopefully, sighed, and finally announced that he’d better be off to find that stop-cock afore the light went; all growed over, it’d be. Mr Franklin protested, but Jake hopped away, making ancient noises, leaving the American to pledge Prior and attempt his fourth pint of the dark, soapy liquor which seemed to be filling every corner of his abdominal cavity, and possibly running down into his legs as well.

      Finally it was done, and Mr Franklin was able to bid the Apple Tree good evening, and escape from that hot, musty atmosphere, apparently compounded of cow’s breath and old clothes; he was to grow to recognize it as the distinctive scent of the English farmhand. He was feeling decidedly bloated, but otherwise at peace with mankind; his feet seemed slightly farther away from the rest of his body than usual, and it took longer to place them one in front of the other, but he was in no hurry to get home on this balmy evening – for one thing, home was half a mile away, and if there was one thing he was certain of, in his slightly soporific condition, it was that he was going to have to shed some of his alcoholic burden somewhere, somehow, before he got there.

      A dusty and deserted side-turning off the main street caught his eye; it wound between large, untidy, and concealing hedges, so Mr Franklin followed it with casual deliberateness, and two minutes later was shoulder deep in a thicket at the roadside, leaning his head against a branch and solemnly examining a spider’s web at close range, grunting contentedly as his troubles poured away into the rank grass, and his lower torso began to feel normal again. Thereafter he took a turn farther up the by-road, and presently found himself regarding an ancient lych-gate set in a mossy wall, and there beyond it, half-hidden by the great yews that lined the wall, the square weathered tower of the village church.

      Mr Franklin surveyed it, balancing carefully. What was it his father had said, about some old English king bringing yew-trees from Europe, planting them in every churchyard in England so that the country should never be short of the material on which its army depended – the yew wood that made the great long-bows with which the English peasantry had humbled the armoured might of their nation’s enemies.

      “Dam’ good idea,” said Mr Franklin approvingly, staring at the massive, ugly black trunks, their shadows falling on the trim grass among the lichened tombstones. “Bully for you, king.” He passed through the gate with its little steep roof, swayed slightly, and leaned on the nearest tree for support, feeling a trifle dizzy. For the moment he was content to rest there; the evening air was warm and tranquil, and he listened to its quiet stirring while he studied the ruddy stone pile of the old church bathed in sunset; from there his attention turned to the gnarled bark under his hand – and an echo was sounding in his mind, assisted by four pints of October ale, an echo from somewhere in memory – the El Paso road? Hole-in-the – Wall? Cassidy’s slow, deliberate murmur … “and you, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England, be copy now to men of grosser blood, and teach them how to war …”

      He disremembered which battle that had been, but he wondered idly if any of its bows had come from this churchyard, or if any of the people who had been there were perhaps now here – under those old gravestones, dark and crooked on the level turf, and decidedly the ale must have been at work on his imagination, for he was suddenly aware of a voice at his elbow, high-pitched and pleasant, and it was saying:

      “Well, we aren’t Stoke Poges, you know, but I suppose the lines are appropriate for all that. The rude forefathers of the hamlet … well, I imagine they don’t come much ruder than ours. How d’ye do?”

      Mr Franklin realized that he was sitting down, on one of the flat, raised tombs, and was being surveyed by a stout, baldish man in spectacles, with wisps of silvery hair fluttering over his ears; he was an untidy man, with a flannel shirt open at the neck, a huge tweed jacket which fitted where it touched, and knickerbockers insecurely fastened above elderly stockings. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm and a look of whimsical inquiry on his carelessly-shaven face. Mr Franklin made a partially successful effort to rise and beg the newcomer’s pardon.

      “Not at all. I should apologize for breaking in on your … ah, reverie. But when I hear Grey’s Elegy, in an American accent …” The short-sighted eyes peered and twinkled.

      “Was I reciting?” Mr Franklin made a mental note to steer clear of Norfolk beer in future. “I guess I must have been ready to drop off. I’m sorry.”

      “I’m not. Very proper thing to do. Quite natural. Where else should one recite Grey’s Elegy? Apart form Stoke Poges, of course. Forgive me, but I was correct, wasn’t I? You are American?”

      “Yes, sir. I –”

      “I wouldn’t inquire, but we see very few visitors, you know, much less transatlantic ones. Not much to attract tourists to our rural retreat, I’m afraid – unless you are interested in runes. We have rather a fine example of one of the stones just inside the doorway there – in fact, while I was at Cambridge I was privileged to assist in deciphering it – curiously enough, it was a learned gentleman from one of your universities – Yale, in fact – who finally made the translation. Splendid scholar; splendid. It was really quite interesting,” went on the stout man, “because the inscription reads: ‘Lanca wrote this rune on this stone”. And of course, this place is called Castle Lancing – well, Lancing means Lanca’s people, so we have the mystery of a stone engraved by a Norseman, Lanca, possibly as early as the ninth century, and our church is only twelfth century. Curious, isn’t it? Or perhaps,” said the stout man anxiously, “you aren’t interested in runes?”

      Mr Franklin had recovered himself by now. “I might be,” he ventured, “if I knew what they were.”

      “Teutonic engraving – adaptation of Roman letters to permit them to be carved in stone – Anglo-Saxon, Danish, that sort of thing,” said the stout man. “But I’m so sorry – you must think me extremely rude, breaking in on you … only –” and he suddenly beamed in a way which made him look about ten years old “-one doesn’t often hear Grey being quoted aloud in one’s churchyard.”

      “I’m the intruder,” said Mr Franklin. “Is this – I mean, are you the … the clergyman?”

      “Heavens, no!” The stout man laughed. “I’m simply a pest who infests the vestry, like death-watch beetle – which we haven’t got, thank God, not yet, touch wood. Parish records, that sort of thing. No – our vicar is a much more useful member of the community, I’m happy to say.” He