Delighted at the leisure afforded by his dismissal, Templeton returned to his lodging, and spent the remainder of that day and the whole of the next in working at the road-sweeper.  Eves watched him for an hour or two, but finding his friend’s patient labour too slow for his taste, he went through the town to the scene of Saturday’s ceremony, and amused himself by looking on at the preparations, and chatting with any one who would listen to him.  The British Stone was a sort of truncated monolith standing in a meadow about a couple of acres in extent.  A small square enclosure had been roped off around it, and within stood a low wooden platform from which the mayor, after breaking a bottle of cider on the stone, would deliver the annual oration in honour of the town and its ancient worthies.  Against the hedge, on all four sides of the meadow, were ranged caravans, roundabouts, Aunt Sallies, raree-shows, and all the paraphernalia of a country fair, with stalls for the sale of hot drinks and such comestibles as the Food Regulations had not debarred. The continuous wet weather and the passage of many vehicles had made the entrance to the field a slough, and many of the showmen wore gloomy faces at the expectation that fewer spectators than usual would attend the ceremony.  They asked quite reasonably whether the women folk, their best customers, would brave the risk of sinking ankle-deep in mud.