One of his labourers has decided at the last minute to enter for a prize--he has had a year to make up his mind in.

A crowd of members of the Society are pushing round for a private view, and watching the judges at their work.

They all turn to the secretary to ask where such and such an exhibit may be found, and demand why on earth the catalogues are not ready?
Mr.Secretary, a stout tenant farmer, in breeches and top-boots, whose broad face beams with good nature (selected, perhaps, for that very quality), pants and wipes his forehead, for, despite the cold, the exertion and the universal flurry have made him quiet hot.

He gives every inquirer a civil answer, and affably begs the eager folk that press upon him to come up into the committee-room.
At this a satisfied smile replaces the troubled expression upon their faces.

They feel that their difficulties are at an end; they have got hold of the right man at last--there is something soothing in the very sound of the committee-room.