And so began a brief rustic idyll in the life of Mr Bradley Headstone. The gentleman in question - having suffered a blow to the head that had rendered him senseless and made him as unaware of his origins as anyone who had just but recently made his acquaintance - now roamed about the village and its environs in a state of perfect contentment. Slowly he learnt about the simple country ways: how to tell the difference between stinging nettles and dock leaves; which pasture the farmer's bull was set to graze in and what speed was required to outrun him; why one should never when picking buttercups present one's posterior to a grazing goat; which berries were inclined to give stomach cramps; and many other lessons of an instructive character. There was even a prospect of future employment for one of the local farmers declared outright that if ever he needed a scarecrow for his north field, then he need look no further than under the sign of The Blue Dragon.
It was indeed under this very sign, which for many years had swung and creaked in summer storms and autumn gales, that Mr Headstone was reposing one hot afternoon with a mug of cider for company when - with no advance notice of its intentions - that emblem of the house finally gave up the ghost and slipped the weakened moorings of its iron hinges to plummet directly earthwards. Mr Headstone had at that very moment tilted back his head to take a final draught, and, with his eyes thus directed heavenward, he was given a clear view of the descending board with just the requisite amount of time to register its approach without -alas- a sufficient subsequent period to avoid it. It was a sturdy sign made from sturdy English oak and when it struck the surprised pedagogue on the forehead it made a sturdy sound not at all dissimilar to that of a cricket ball being struck by a willow bat.
Mrs Lupin, who had observed the incident from an upper window of the inn, rushed downstairs to the bar for a jug of cold water in order to revive the unfortunate gentleman from the second stupor he had fallen into in the space of a quarter. Having performed this kindly service, she told the pot boy to run and fetch the apothecary. By the time that worthy medical man arrived - for being wanted again he was naturally not to be found at home - Mr Headstone had recovered enough to be able to sit up and engage in conversation, the main purport of which was to announce his immediate return to London, from which place he had been absent for longer than was conducive to the preservation of a gentleman's reputation.
Mr Charles Dickens
