"
"Any sort of farmer?" asked Joe.
"Is there more than one sort?" returned Mr. Lavender, smiling.
Joe cocked his eye. "Ain't you never lived in the country, sir?"
"Not for more than a few weeks at a time, Joe, unless Rochester counts.
Of course, I know Eastbourne very well."
"I know Eastbourne from the inside," said Joe discursively. "I was a
waiter there once."
"An interesting life, a waiter's, Joe, I should think."
"Ah! Everything comes to 'im who waits, they say. But abaht
farmers--you've got a lot to learn, sir."
"I am always conscious of that, Joe; the ramifications of public life
are innumerable."
"I could give you some rummikins abaht farmers. I once travelled in
breeches."
"You seem to have done a great many things Joe."
"That's right, sir. I've been a sailor, a 'traveller,' a waiter, a
scene-shifter, and a shover, and I don't know which was the cushiest
job. But, talking of farmers: there's the old English type that wears
Bedfords--don't you go near 'im, 'e bites. There's the modern
scientific farmer, but it'll take us a week to find 'im. And there's the
small-'older, wearin' trahsers, likely as not; I don't think 'e'd be any
use to you.
"What am I to do then?" asked Mr Lavender.
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