nearly eleven o'clock before
Ca n't yer see it , mate , in glass bottles wi ' lemons stuck in the tops and no froth ? '' The driver grumbled in his throat . The start had been an early one and he was dry , despite several ineffectual attempts to allay his thirst at wayside inns . It was nearly eleven o'clock before a sprinkling of houses warned them that they were approaching Barton Bridge . Soon the pantechnicon was awaking echoes in the drowsy old High Street . Half-way along what is practically the only thoroughfare stands the Pack Horse , outside which the driver instinctively pulled up , and he and Bindle clambered down and entered , ostensibly to enquire the way to the Fête ground . Behind the bar stood Mr. Cutts , wearing the inevitable red knitted cap without which no one had ever seen him during business hours .