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"
My
own
.
"
This
reply
invariably
operated
like
a
rumour
of
cholera
.
The
inquiring
farmer
would
edge
away
and
shake
his
head
dubiously
.
Gabriel
,
like
his
dog
,
was
too
good
to
be
trustworthy
,
and
he
never
made
advance
beyond
this
point
.
It
is
safer
to
accept
any
chance
that
offers
itself
,
and
extemporize
a
procedure
to
fit
it
,
than
to
get
a
good
plan
matured
,
and
wait
for
a
chance
of
using
it
.
Gabriel
wished
he
had
not
nailed
up
his
colours
as
a
shepherd
,
but
had
laid
himself
out
for
anything
in
the
whole
cycle
of
labour
that
was
required
in
the
fair
.
It
grew
dusk
.
Some
merry
men
were
whistling
and
singing
by
the
corn
-
exchange
.
Gabriel
’
s
hand
,
which
had
lain
for
some
time
idle
in
his
smock
-
frock
pocket
,
touched
his
flute
which
he
carried
there
.
Here
was
an
opportunity
for
putting
his
dearly
bought
wisdom
into
practice
.
He
drew
out
his
flute
and
began
to
play
"
Jockey
to
the
Fair
"
in
the
style
of
a
man
who
had
never
known
moment
’
s
sorrow
.
Oak
could
pipe
with
Arcadian
sweetness
,
and
the
sound
of
the
well
-
known
notes
cheered
his
own
heart
as
well
as
those
of
the
loungers
.
He
played
on
with
spirit
,
and
in
half
an
hour
had
earned
in
pence
what
was
a
small
fortune
to
a
destitute
man
.
By
making
inquiries
he
learnt
that
there
was
another
fair
at
Shottsford
the
next
day
.
"
How
far
is
Shottsford
?
"
"
Ten
miles
t
’
other
side
of
Weatherbury
.
"
Weatherbury
!
It
was
where
Bathsheba
had
gone
two
months
before
.
This
information
was
like
coming
from
night
into
noon
.
"
How
far
is
it
to
Weatherbury
?
"
