But as the boat drew clear of the jetties with their press of vessels, and Kit's Cottage hove in sight, the Admiral's eyes, which were fixed ahead, grew suddenly very large and round.

"This is very extraordinary!" he muttered, "very extraordinary indeed!"

"What is it, papa?" and the three Misses Buzza simultaneously turned their mushroom hats to look.

"I cannot tell, Sophia; but to me it appears as if these people were—not to put too fine a point upon it—washing."

It was quite true. On the little beach, Mr. Fogo, with his sleeves turned up and a large apron pinned around him, was standing before a huge tub, industriously washing. The tub rested on a couple of stools. A little to the left, Caleb Trotter, with his back turned to the river, was wringing the articles of male costume which his master handed him, and disposing them about the shingle to dry.



The Admiral had chosen a washing-day for his first call at Kit's House.

The approach of the boat was at first unperceived; for Caleb, as I said, had his back turned to it, and Mr. Fogo's spectacles were bent over his employment.

"Really," murmured the Admiral, as his eye travelled over the beach, "anything more indelicate—Why, Miss Limpenny might be rowing this way for anything they know. Hi, sir!"

Still grasping the tiller-lines, the Admiral stood up on the stern seat and shouted.

At the sound Mr. Fogo raised his spectacles and blandly stared through them at the strangers. Caleb started, turned suddenly round, and came rushing down the beach, his right hand frantically waving them back, his left grasping a pair of—(Oh! Miss Limpenny!)

"Hi! you must go back. Go away, I tell 'ee!" he gesticulated.

"What on—"

"Go away; no females allowed here. Off with 'ee this moment!"

"Put down those —s, sir," yelled the Admiral.

"Sarve 'ee right: no business to come: 'tes Bachelor's Hall, this, an' us don't want no womankind trapesin' here: so keep your distance. Go 'long!" And Caleb began to wave again.

"Sir," cried the Admiral, appealing to Mr. Fogo, "what is the meaning of this extraordinary reception?"

"Eh? What?" said that gentleman, who apparently had fallen into a fit of deep abstraction. "I beg your pardon. I did not quite catch—"

"What is the meaning of all this, sir?" The Admiral was scarlet with passion.

"Oh, it's quite right, I believe—quite right. Caleb will tell you." As he gave this astonishing answer in a far-away tone, Mr. Fogo's spectacles rested on his visitor for a moment with a smile of deepest benevolence. Then, with a sigh, he resumed his washing.

The Admiral positively danced with rage.

"There, what did I tell 'ee?" exclaimed Caleb triumphantly. "That's your answer, and now you can go 'long home. Off with 'ee!"

The Admiral's reply would probably have contained some strong words. It was arrested by a catastrophe.

During this altercation the tide had been rising, and carried the boat gently up towards the little beach. As the Admiral opened his mouth to retort, the boat's nose jarred upon a sunken heap of pebbles. The shock was slight, but enough to upset his equilibrium. Without any warning, the Admiral's heels shot upwards, and the great man himself, with a wild clutch at vacancy, soused backwards— cocked-hat and all—into the water.

The three Misses Buzza with one accord clasped their hands and uttered dismal shrieks; the three mushroom hats shook with terror. Mr. Fogo looked up from his washing.

"Papa! oh, save him—save our dear Papa!"

There was no danger. Presently a crimson face rose over the boat's stern, blowing like a grampus. A pair of dripping epaulets followed; and then the Admiral stood up, knee-deep in water, and swore and spat alternately.

How different from that glittering hero, at sight of whom, not an hour before, the Trojan dames at their lattices had stopped their needlework to whisper! Down his nose and chin ran a pitiable flood; his scanty locks, before so wiry and obstinate, lay close against his ears; his gorgeous uniform, tarnished with slime, hung in folds, and from each fold poured a separate cascade; the whole man had become suddenly shrunken.

Speechless with rage, the little man clambered over the stern and shook his fist at the wondering spectacles of Mr. Fogo.

"You shall repent this, sir! You shall—Jane, push the boat off at once!"

But even the dignity of a fine exit was denied the Admiral. The boat was by this time firmly aground, and he was forced to stand, forming large pools upon the stern-board, while the grinning Caleb pushed her off. And still Mr. Fogo looked mildly on, with his hands in the wash-tub.

"Do you hear me, sir? You shall repent this!" raved the Admiral.

"Now, don't 'ee go upsettin' yourself again, 'cos wance es enough. An' 't'ain't no good to be vexed wi' Maaster, 'cos he don't mind 'ee. 'Tes like Smoothey's weddin'—all o' one side. Next time, I hopes you'll listen when you'm spoken to."

And with a chuckle, Caleb sent the boat spinning into deep water. Scarce daring to look at their father, the Misses Buzza plunged their oars into the brine, and the Admiral, still shaking his fist, was borne slowly out of sight. At last even his language failed upon the breeze.

Caleb quietly returned to his work.

"Thicky Adm'ral," he observed, contemplatively, after a silence of a minute or so, "puts me in mind o' Humphrey Hambly's ducks, as is said to look larger than they be."

He paused in the act of wringing a shirt, to look at Mr. Fogo.

The next instant the shirt was lying on the shingle, and Caleb had sprung upon his master, taken him by the shoulders, and was shaking him with might and main.

"Come, wake up! Do 'ee hear? What be glazin' at?"

"Eh? Dear me!" stammered Mr. Fogo, as well as he might for the shaking. "What's all this?"

"Axin' your pardon, sir," explained Caleb, continuing the treatment, "but 'tes all for your good, like ringin' a pig. You'm a-woolgatherin'; wake up!"

Mr. Fogo came to himself, and sat down upon a log of timber to rearrange his thoughts and his spectacles. Caleb stood over him and sternly watched his recovery.

"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts were wandering. Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest. Are those extraordinary people gone?"

"Iss, sir; here they were, but gone—like Jemmy Rule's larks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Figger o' speech, sir. They be gone right enough—Adm'ral Buzza in full fig, and a row o' darters in jallishy buff. I sent 'em 'bout their bus'ness. Look 'ee here, sir: ef you'll promise to sit quiet and keep your wits at home, I'll run down to town for a happord o' tar."

"Tar, Caleb?"

"Iss, sir, tar!" and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode away across the shingle. In a moment or two he had untied his boat from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.

When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a brush. He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr. Fogo was nowhere to be seen. "Drownded hissel'," was Caleb's first thought, but his ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house. He walked indoors to see that all was right.

"How be feelin'?" he asked, putting his head in at the dining-room door.

Mr. Fogo laid down the mallet with which he had been nailing a loose plank in the flooring, and looked up.

"All right, Caleb, thank you."

"I was afear'd you might be none compass agen."

"What?"

"None compass—Greek for 'mazed.' Good-bye for the present, sir."

Caleb borrowed a hammer, a nail or two, and a spade, and descended again to the beach. Here he chose a spot carefully, and began to dig a large hole in the shingle. This finished, he turned to the board, and spent some time with the brush in his hand and his head on one side, thinking. Then he began to paint vigorously.

Half-an-hour later, a tall post with a board on top stood on the beach at Kit's House. On the board, in letters six inches long, was tarred the following inscription:—

TAKE NOTICE.

ALL WIMMEN FOUND TRAPESING ON THIS BEECH WILL BE DEALT WITH ACCORDING TO THE LAW.

Above this notice jauntily rested the Admiral's cocked-hat, which had drifted ashore further up on the shingle—an awful witness to the earnestness of the threat and the vanity of human greatness.

Caleb stood in front of his handiwork and gazed at it with honest pride for some minutes; then went into the house to fetch Mr. Fogo forth to look. He was absent for some minutes. When he returned with his master, their eyes were greeted with a curious sight.

On the spit of shingle, and staring open-mouthed at the notice, stood the Twins, their honest faces expressing the extreme of perplexity. A few yards off the shore, in their boat, waited Tamsin, and leant quietly on her paddles.



At the sight of her, Caleb's face fell a full inch; but he led his master down and planted him resolutely in front of the board. Mr. Fogo stared helplessly from it to the Twins.

"Mornin', sir," said Peter, after a long pause. His face wore a deepened colour, and he smiled awkwardly.

"Good-morning," replied Mr. Fogo.

"A fine mornin'," repeated Peter, with a long gaze at the board, "an' no mistake."

There was another long interval, during which everybody stared hard at the Notice.

"'Tes a powerful fine mornin'," Peter re-asserted very slowly, "ef so be as your station in life es in noways connected with turmuts. Ef 'tes the less us says about the mornin' the better." With this observation Peter looked hard at Mr. Fogo, as if the ball of conversation now lay in that gentleman's hands.

"What do 'ee think o' this 'ere Notice?" broke in Caleb.

Paul twitched his yellow bandanna and smiled evasively.

"'Tes very pretty writin', sir, sure-ly," he replied, addressing Mr. Fogo. "Nice thick down-strokes, an' all as it shou'd be."

"Uncommon fash'nubble et makes the beach look, sir, a'ready," added Peter.

Some mental reservation seemed to lurk behind this criticism. Mr. Fogo looked dubiously from the Twins to Caleb, who stood with his eyes fixed on his handiwork.

"Axin' your pard'n, sir, an' makin' so free as to mention et," began Peter at length, pulling off his hat and twirling the brim between his fingers, "but us was a bit taken aback, not understandin' as fash'nubbleness was to begin so smart; or us wou'dn't have introoded—spesh'ly Tamsin. Tamsin was thinkin' this mornin' as a pound of fresh butter might be acceptable to the gentl'm'n down at Kit's House, wi' ha'f a dozen fresh eggs or so, 'cos her Minorcy hen began to lay agen last week, an' the spickaty Hamburg as allays lays double yolks; an' Paul an' me agreed you wudn' be above acceptin' a little present o' this natur', not seemin' proud, an' Tamsin shou'd bring et hersel', the eggs bein' hers in a manner o' speakin'. But us was not wishful to introod, sir, an' iver since us seed the board here, her's been keepin' her distance in the boat yonder; on'y us stepped ashore to larn ef there was anything us cou'd do to make things ship-shape an' fitty for 'ee."

At the end of this long address, Peter, whose mahogany face was several shades deeper, pulled up, and resumed his hat.

"Ship-shape an' fitty—not wishful for to introod. That's so, Peter," echoed his brother.

Mr. Fogo looked at the pair helplessly, and again at Caleb, whose eyes were obstinately averted.

"Caleb!"

"Sir."

"Ask Miss Dearlove if she would mind stepping ashore."

With a sudden brightening of face, Caleb called her name. Tamsin looked up.

"Ef 'ee please, you'm to come ashore, to wance!"

The girl rowed a couple of strokes, grounded the boat, and stepped lightly ashore with a big basket and an unembarrassed glance at the Notice.

"There's a few young potatoes at the bottom," she said, with a curtsey, as she handed her gift to Mr. Fogo. "They're the earliest and best anywhere in these parts. Can you cook potatoes?" she asked, suddenly turning to Caleb. Beneath her sun-bonnet her pretty cheek was flushed, and her chin thrust forward with just a shadow of defiance.

"Iss, to be sure," grinned Caleb. "Why, us does our own washin'."

Tamsin's eyes travelled without bashfulness over the array upon the beach.

"Pretty washing, I expect!" She walked up and took some of the clothes into her hand. "Look here—not half-wrung—and some fallen in the mud and dirtied worse than ever."

With fine contempt she moved among the clothes, wrung them, spread them out again, and even returned with some to the wash-tub. Like four whipped schoolboys the males looked on as she tucked up the sleeves of her neat print gown.

"Soap, too, left to float in the wash-tub, and—salt water I declare! Caleb, empty this and get some soft water from the old butt by the back door. Oh, you poor, helpless baby!"

Mr. Fogo, though the words were not spoken to him, winced and turned to stare abstractedly at the river.



"Sir," said Caleb from his hammock that night, "cudn' 'ee put in a coddysel?"

"A codicil?"

"Iss, just to say, 'No wimmen allowed but Tamsin Dearlove—us don't mind she.' Wudn' that do, sir?"

"I'm afraid not, Caleb. By-the-bye, how does your Notice run? 'All women found trespassing will be—'"

"Dealt wi' 'cordin' to the law, sir."

"Dear me, Caleb!" murmured Mr. Fogo, "but I trust that under no circumstances should I deal with a woman otherwise than according to the law."



CHAPTER IX.

OF A TOWN THAT WOULD LAUGH AT THE GREAT. AND HOW A DULL COMPANY WAS CURED BY AN IRISH SONG.

We left the Misses Buzza engaged in rowing their papa homewards. The Three Queens as they steered King Arthur to Avilion can have been no sadder pageant. It is true the Misses Buzza grieved for no Excalibur, but the Admiral had lost his cocked-hat.

Picture to yourself that procession: the journey past the jetties; the faces that grinned down from overhanging hulls, or looked out hurriedly at casements and grew pale; the blue-jerseyed Trojan lounging on the quay, and pausing in his whistle to stare; the Trojan maidens gazing, with arrested needle; the shipwrights dropping mallet and tar-pot; the ferrymen resting on their oars; the makers of ship's biscuit rushing out, with aprons flying, to see the sight; the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker—each and all agog. Then imagine the Olympian mirth that ran along the waterside when Troy saw the joke, and, hand on hip, laughed with all its lungs.

But even this was not the worst: no, nor the crowd of urchins that followed from the landing-stage and cheered at intervals. It was when Admiral Buzza looked up and spied the face of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys at an upper window of "The Bower," that the cup of his humiliation indeed brimmed over.

Mrs. Buzza, "tittivating" at the mirror, heard the stir, and, presentient of evil, rushed down-stairs. She saw her lord restored to her, dear but damp. Yet she "nor swooned, nor uttered cry:" she simply sat violently and suddenly down upon the hall-chair, and piteously stared.

"Emily, get up!"

She did so.

"You are wet, my love," she ventured timorously.

"Wet! Woman, is this the time for airy persiflage?"

"My love," replied Mrs. Buzza, meekly, "nothing was further from my thoughts."

The Admiral glared upon her for a moment, but the retort died upon his lips. He flung his hands out with an appealing gesture and something like a sob.

"Emily," he cried, hoarsely, "Troy has laughed at me again. Put me to bed."

O forgiving heart of woman! In a moment her arms were about him, and her tears mingling with the general dampness of the Admiral's costume. Then, having wept her fill, she smiled a little, dried her eyes, and put the Admiral to bed.

Out of doors Troy still laughed at the mishap. The whole story was soon related (with infinite humour) by the unfilial Sam. Down at the "Man-o'-War," in the bar-parlour, for seven days it formed the sole topic of discussion; and Mr. Moggridge (who ought to have respected Sophia's father) even wrote a humorous ode upon the theme, beginning—

"Ye gods and little fishes . . ."

and full of the quaintest conceits. For seven days, from dawn to nightfall, the river off Kit's House was crowded with boat-loads of curious gazers, and the Steam-Tug Company (Limited) neglected its serious business to run special excursions to the scene of the catastrophe.

The Trojan maidens especially would stare at the Notice by the half-hour (that being the time allowed by the Steam-Tug Company), and hope, with much blushing and giggling, to catch a glimpse of Mr. Fogo. But the hermit remained steadily indoors.

Meanwhile the Admiral sulked in bed, and nursed his ill-humour. On Tuesday he was strangely softened and quiet; but:—

On Wednesday he recovered, and began to bully his wife as fiercely as ever.

On Thursday he broke the bell-rope again, and the servant gave warning.

On Friday he threatened to make his will, and refused his food.

On Saturday he was still fasting.

On Sunday he ate voraciously, drank four glasses of grog, and threw the wash-hand basin out of window.

On Monday Mrs. Buzza revolted, and took herself off, with the girls, to Miss Limpenny's party.

Yes. Miss Limpenny had mustered courage to put on her best brooch and call at "The Bower" with Lavinia. Nor did her daring end here; it took the form of a little three-cornered note on that very evening, and on the next morning Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys accepted.

"Have great pleasure in accepting," read Miss Limpenny to her sister. "The very words. I'm sure it's most affable."

"We must have cheesecakes—the famous cheesecakes—of course," reflected Miss Lavinia, "and a dish of trifle, and jellies, and—oh, Priscilla!"

"What, Lavinia?"

"Do you think a Tipsy Cake would be unbecoming?"

Miss Limpenny knit her brows over this bold proposal.

"I disapprove of the name," she said. "It has always seemed to me a trifle—ahem!—'fast,' if I may call it so. Still, we need not mention its name at supper, and the taste is undeniably grateful. But, Lavinia, I was thinking of a more important matter. Who are to be asked?"

"Why not everybody, Priscilla dear?"

"The Simpsons, for instance? It is true his father was a respectable solicitor, and even Mayor of Devonport I have heard, but Mr. Simpson's taste in badinage is such as I cannot always approve. It is very well in Troy here, where everybody knows them, but the Goodwyn-Sandys are certain to be most particular, and, Lavinia, that crimson gown of hers!"

"It is bright," assented Miss Lavinia.

"And the Saunders! What a pity the girls cannot be invited without the boys."

"The boys have always come before, Priscilla."

Miss Limpenny groaned. "To meet an Honourable, Lavinia!"

The leaven was working.

However, on the following Monday everybody was assembled in the little drawing-room. The Vicar was there in evening dress; the doctor and his wife; Mr. Simpson and Mrs. Simpson in the crimson gown; the Saunders boys in carpet slippers (at sight of which Miss Limpenny went hot and cold by turns); the Misses Buzza in book-muslin, with ultramarine sashes and bronze shoes laced sandal-wise; their mother in green satin and deadly terror lest the Admiral's voice should penetrate the party-wall. Mr. Moggridge was frowning gloomily in a corner at some humorous story of Sam Buzza's telling. In short, with the exception of their Admiral, all Trojan society had gathered to do honour to the new-comers.

Miss Limpenny, nervously toying with her best brooch, rose in a flutter as the door opened and admitted them.

"So afraid we are late! but the clocks at 'The Bower' have not yet recovered from their journey."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys gazed calmly about her. There was a rustle throughout the room; two pink spots appeared on Miss Limpenny's cheeks; she stumbled in her words of welcome. The Vicar frowned and looked puzzled.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys wore a low-necked gown!

It was a shock; but it passed. She was wonderfully pretty, all admitted, in her gown of a rich amber satin draped with delicate folds of black lace; around her white throat a diamond necklace glistened. How well I can remember her as she stood there toying with a button of her glove! And how mean and dowdy we all looked beside this glittering vision!

The Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys meanwhile stared at us all calmly but firmly through his eye-glass. I saw young Horatio Saunders meet that gaze and sink into his carpet slippers. I saw Mr. Moggridge frown terribly, and cross his arms. Sam Buzza came forward—

"Ah, how d'ye do? How d'ye do, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys? Looking round for the governor? He's been in bed for a week."

I think we all envied Samuel Buzza at this moment.

"Ah, nothing serious, I hope?" drawled Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"Serious, ha, ha! Haven't you heard—"

"Sam, dear!" expostulated Mrs. Buzza.

"All right, mother. He can't hear," and Sam plunged into the story.

The ice was broken. In a few moments a whist party was made up to include the Honourable Frederic, and Miss Limpenny breathed more freely. Mr. Moggridge was led up by Sam, and introduced.

"Ah, indeed! Mr. Moggridge, I have been so longing to know you."

Sam looked a trifle vexed. The poet simpered that he was happy.

"Of course I have been reading 'Ivy Leaves.' So mournful I thought them, yet somehow so attractive. How did you write it all?"

Mr. Moggridge confessed amiably that he "didn't quite know."

"Let me see; those lines beginning—"

'O give me wings to—to—'

"I forget for the moment how it goes on."

"'To fly away,'" suggested the bard.

"Ah, exactly; 'to fly away.' So simple—just what one would wish wings for, you know. It struck me very much when I read it. When did you think of it, Mr. Moggridge?"

The poet blushed and began to look uncomfortable.

"Ah! you are reticent. Excuse me; I ought not to probe a poet's soul. Still, I should like to be able to tell my friends—"

"The—the fact is," stammered Mr. Moggridge, "I—I thought of them— in—my bath."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys leaned back and laughed—a pretty rippling laugh that shook the diamonds upon her throat. Sam guffawed, and by this action sprang that little rift between the friends that widened before long into a gulf.

"I shall ask you to copy them into my Album. I always victimise a lion when I meet one."

This was said with a glance full of compensation. Mr. Moggridge tried to look very leonine indeed. Across the room another pair of eyes gently reproached him. Never before had he tarried so long from Sophia's side. Poor little heart! beating so painfully beneath your dowdy muslin bodice. It was early yet for you to ache.

"Oh, ah, Dick Cheddar—knew him well," came in the sonorous tones of the Honourable Frederic from the whist-table. "So you were at College with him—first cousin to Lord Stilton—get the title if he only outlives the old man—good fellow, Dick—but drinks."

"Dear me," said the Vicar; "I am sorry to hear that. He was wild at Christchurch, but nothing out of the way. Why, I remember at the Aylesbury Grinds—"

Miss Limpenny, who did not know an Aylesbury Grind from a Bampton Lecture, yet detected an unfamiliar ring in the Vicar's voice.

"He fought a welsher," pursued the Vicar, "just before riding in a race. 'Rollingstone,' his horse was, and Cheddar's eyes closed before the second fence. 'Tom,' he called to me—I was on a mare called Barmaid—"

I ask you to guess the amazement that fell among us. He—our Vicar— riding a mare called Barmaid! Miss Limpenny cast her eyes up to meet the descent of the thunderbolt.

"Lord Ballarat was riding too," the Vicar went on, "and young Tom Beauchamp, son of the Bishop—"

"Died of D.T. out at Malta with the Ninety-ninth," interpolated the Honourable Frederic.

"So I heard, poor fellow. Three-bottle Beauchamp we called him. I've put him to bed many a time when—"

It was too much.

"In the Great Exhibition of 1851," began Miss Priscilla severely.

But at this moment a dreadful rumbling shook the room. The chandeliers rattled, the egg-shell china danced upon the what-not, and a jarring sensation suddenly ran up the spine of every person in the company.

"It's an earthquake!" shouted the Honourable Frederic, starting up with an oath.

Miss Limpenny thought an earthquake nothing less than might be expected after such language. Louder and still louder grew the rumbling, until the very walls shook. Everybody turned to a ghastly white. The Vicar's face bore eloquent witness to the reproach of his conscience.

"I think it must be thunder," he gasped.

"Or a landslip," suggested Sam Buzza.

"Or a paroxysm of Nature," said Mr. Moggridge (though nobody knew what he meant).

"Or the end of the world," hazarded Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mrs. Buzza timidly, "but I think it may be my husband."

"Is your husband a volcano, madam?" snapped Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys, rather sharply.

Mrs. Buzza might have answered "Yes," with some colour of truth; but she merely said, "I think it must be his double-bass. My husband is apt in hours of depression to seek the consolation of that instrument."

"But, my dear madam, what is the tune?"

"I think," she faltered, "I am not sure, but I rather think, it is the 'Dead March' in Saul."

There was no doubt of it. The notes by this time vibrated piteously through the party-wall, and with their awful solemnity triumphed over all conversation. Tones became hushed, as though in the presence of death; and the Vicar, in his desperate attempts to talk, found his voice chained without mercy to the slow foot of the dirge. He tried to laugh.

"Really, this is too absurd—ha! ha! Tum-tum-tibby-tum." The effort ended in ghastly failure. Thrum-thrum-tiddy-thrum went the Admiral's instrument.

Miss Limpenny grew desperate. "Sophia," she pleaded, "pray sing us one of your cheerful ballads."

Sophia looked at Mr. Moggridge. He had always turned over the pages for her so devotedly. Surely he would make some sign now. Alas! all his eyes were for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"I will try," she assented with something dangerously like a sob.

She stepped to the "Collard" at a pace remorselessly timed to the "Dead March," and chose her ballad—a trifle of Mr. Moggridge's composition. It would reproach him more sharply than words, she thought. A cloud of angry tears blurred her sight as she struck the tinkling prelude.

"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove, to Cupid, and to Venus—"

Thrum-thrum-thrum went the double bass next door. Mr. Moggridge looked up. How thin and reedy Sophia's voice sounded to-night! He had never thought so before.

"That he might die, if he betrayed A single vow that passed between us."

"Sweetly touching!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

Sophia pursued—

"O careless gods, to hear so ill, And cheat the maid on you relying; For false Lysander's thriving still, And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying."

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys as Sophia with flushed cheeks left the piano.

"That is all—a little effort not worth—"

"Oh, it is yours! But," with a sweet smile, "I ought to have guessed. You must write a song for me one of these days."

"Do you sing?" cried the delighted Mr. Moggridge.

Sam, who had been waiting for a chance to speak, shouted across the room—"I say, Miss Limpenny, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys will sing if you ask her."

After very little solicitation, and with none of the coyness common to amateurs, she seated herself at the instrument, quietly pulled off her gloves, and dashed without more ado into a rollicking Irish ditty.

"Be aisy an' list to a chune That's sung uv bowld Tim, the dragoon; Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss To be stalin' a kiss— Or a brace—by the light uv the moon, Aroon, Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

"Really!" murmured Miss Limpenny. The keys of the decorous "Collard" clashed as they had never clashed before. The guests, at first shocked and startled, began to be carried away with the reckless swing of the music. The Vicar stared for a moment, and then began gradually to nod his head to the measure.

"You must sing the last line in chorus, please," said Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys from the piano—

"Wid a wink at the man in the moon!"

It was sung timidly at first. Nothing daunted, the performer plunged into the next verse—

"Rest his sowl in the arms uv owld Nick! For he's gone from the land uv the quick: But he's still makin' luv To the leddies above, An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick, Avick, Niver fear but he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

There was no doubt this time. By the spirit of her mad singing, by some demon that rode upon her full and liquid voice, the whole company seemed possessed. Miss Limpenny looked furtively towards the Vicar. He was actually joining in the chorus! And what a chorus! She put her mittened palms to her ears, such a shout it was that went up.

"'Tis by Tim the dear saints'll set sthore, And 'ull thrate him to whiskey galore; For they've only to sip But the tip uv his lip, An' bedad! they'll be askin' for more, Asthore, By the powers! they'll be shoutin' 'Ancore'!"

It was no longer an assembly of dull and decent citizens: it was a room full of lunatics yelling the burden of this frantic Irish song. Laughingly, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys rested her finger on the keys and looked around. These stolid Trojans had caught fire. There was the little Doctor purple all above his stock; there was the Vicar with inflated cheeks and a hag-ridden stare; there was Mr. Moggridge snapping his fingers and almost capering; there was Miss Limpenny with her under-jaw dropped and her eyes agape. They were charmed, bewitched, crazy.

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys saw this, and broke into a silvery laugh. The infection spread. In an instant the whole room burst into a peal, a roar. They laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks; they held their sides and laughed again. She had them at her will.

There was no more wonder after this. At supper the talk was furious and incessant; Miss Lavinia spoke of a "tipsy-cake," and never blushed; the Vicar took wine with everybody, and told more stories of Three-bottle Beauchamp; even Sophia laughed with the rest, although her heart was aching—for still her poet neglected her and hung with her brother on the lips of Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys. I saw him bring the poor girl's cloak in the hall afterwards and receive the most piteous of glances. I doubt if he noticed it.

Outside, the Admiral's double-bass was still droning the "Dead March" to Miss Limpenny's laurestinus grove. It was the requiem of our decorum. Long after I was in bed that night I heard the voice of Mr. Moggridge trolling down the street—

"An' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick!"

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys had "taught us the trick," indeed.



CHAPTER X.

OF ONE EXCURSION AND MANY ALARUMS.

"Caleb!" said Mr. Fogo on the morning after Miss Limpenny's party.

"Aye, aye, sir!" Caleb paused in his carpentering to look up.

"It is a lovely morning; I think I will take my easel and go for a walk. You are sure that the crowds have gone at last?"

"All gone, sir. Paice and quiet at last—as Bill said when he was left a widow. Do 'ee want me to go 'long wi' 'ee, sir?"

"No, thank you, Caleb. I shall go along the hills on this side of the river."

"You'd best let me come, sir, or you'll be wool-gatherin' and wand'rin' about till goodness knows what time o' night."

"I shall be back by four o'clock."

"Stop a minnit, sir; I have et. I'll jest put that alarmin' clock o' yourn in your tail-pocket an' set et to ha'f-arter-dree, an' that'll put you in mind when 'tes time to come hom'. 'Tes a wonnerful in-jine, this 'ere clock," reflected Caleb as he carefully set the alarum, "an' chuck-full o' sense, like Malachi's cheeld. Lor', what a thing es Science, as Jenifer said when her seed the tellygrarf-clerk in platey buttons an' red facin's to his breeches. Up the path, sir, an' keep to the left. Good-bye, sir! Now, I'd gie summat," soliloquised Caleb as he watched his master ascend the hill, "to be sure of seein' him back safe an' sound afore nightfall. Aw dear! 'tes a terrable 'sponsible post, bein' teetotum to a babby!"

With this he walked back to the house, but more than once halted on his way to ponder and shake his head ominously.

Mr. Fogo meanwhile, with easel and umbrella on his arm, climbed the hill slowly and with frequent pauses to turn and admire the landscape. It was the freshest of spring mornings: the short turf was beaded with dew, the furze-bushes on either hand festooned with gossamer and strung with mimic diamonds. As he looked harbourwards, the radiance of sky mingling with the glitter of water dazzled and bewildered his sight: below, and at the foot of the steep woods opposite, the river lay cool and shadowy, or vanished for a space beneath a cliff, where the red plough-land broke abruptly away with no more warning than a crazy hurdle. Distinct above the dreamy hum of the little town, the ear caught the rattle of anchor-chains, the cries of an outward-bound crew at the windlass, the clanking of trucks beside the jetties; the creaking of oars in the thole-pins of a tiny boat below ascended musically; the very air was quick with all sounds and suggestions of spring, and of man going forth to his labour; the youthfulness of the morning ran in Mr. Fogo's veins, and lent a buoyancy to his step.

By this time the town was lost to view; next, the bend of Kit's House vanished, and now the broad flood spread in a silver lake full ahead. On the ridge the pure air was simply intoxicating after the languor of the valley. Mr. Fogo began to skip, to snap his fingers, to tilt at the gossamer with his umbrella, and once even halted to laugh hilariously at nothing. An old horse grazing on an isolated patch of turf looked up in mild surprise; Mr. Fogo blushed behind his spectacles and hurried on.

He had gone some distance when a granite roller lying on the ploughed slope beneath a clump of bushes invited him to rest. Mr. Fogo accepted the invitation, and seated himself to contemplate the scene. The bush at his back was comfortable, and by degrees the bright intoxication of his senses settled to a drowsy content. He pulled out his pipe and lit it. Through the curls of blue smoke he watched the glitter on the water below, the prismatic dazzle of the clods where their glossy surface caught the sun, the lazy flap-flap of a heron crossing the valley, and he heard along the uplands the voice (sweetest of rural sounds, and, alas! now obsolete) of a farm-boy chanting to his team, "Brisk and Speedwell, Goodluck and Lively"—and so sank by degrees into a soothing sleep.

When he awoke and looked lazily upwards, at first his eyes encountered gloom. "Have I been sleeping all day?" was his first thought, not without alarm. But under the darkness a bright ray was stealing. Mr. Fogo put up his hand and encountered his umbrella, carefully spread over his face for shade.

This was mysterious; he could swear the umbrella was folded and lying at his side when he dropped asleep. "It must be Caleb," he thought, and stared around. No Caleb was in sight, but he noticed that the sun was dropping towards the west, and noticed also, not fifty yards to the left, and quietly cropping a tuft of bushes, a red bull.

Now Mr. Fogo had an extreme horror of bulls, especially red bulls, and this one was not merely red, but looked savage, to boot. Mr. Fogo peered again round the corner of his umbrella. The brute luckily had not spied him, but neither did it seem in any hurry to move. For twenty minutes Mr. Fogo waited behind his shelter, and still the bull went on cropping.

It was already late, and the brute stood full in the homeward path to Kit's House. It was only possible to make a circuit around the ridge, as the cliff's edge cut off a detour on the other side. Weary of waiting, Mr. Fogo cautiously rose, pushed his easel under the bushes, and began to creep up towards the ridge, holding his umbrella in front of him as a screen. This was rather after the fashion of the ostrich, which, to avoid being seen, buries its head in the sand; nor was it likely that the beast, if irritated at sight of a man, would acquiesce in the phenomenon of an umbrella at large, and strolling on its own responsibility. But as yet the bull's back was towards it.

Stealthily Mr. Fogo crept round. He had placed about seventy yards between him and the animal, and had almost gained the summit when a dismal accident befell.

"Cl'k—Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!"

It was the alarum in his tail-pocket. The bull looked up, gazed wildly at the umbrella, snorted, lashed out with his tail, and started in pursuit. Quick as thought, Mr. Fogo dropped his screen, and, with a startled glance around, dashed at full speed for the ridge, the infernal machine still dinning behind him.

Luckily, the bull's onset was directed at the umbrella. There was a thundering of hoofs, a dull roar, and the poor man, as he gained the summit and cast a frantic look behind, saw a vision of jagged silk and flying ribs. With a groan he tore forwards.

There was a hedge about fifty yards away, and for this he made with panting sides and tottering knees. If he could only stop that alarum! But the relentless noise continued, and now he could hear the bull in fresh pursuit. However, the umbrella had diverted the attack. After a few seconds of agony Mr. Fogo gained the hedge, tore up it, turned, saw the brute appear above the ridge with a wreck of silk and steel upon his horns, and with a sob of thankfulness dropped over into the next field.

But alas! in doing so Mr. Fogo performed the common feat of leaping out of the frying-pan into the fire. For it happened that on the other side a tramp was engaged in his legitimate occupation of sleeping under a hedge, and on his extended body our hero rudely descended.

"Hi!" said the tramp, "where be you a-comin' to?"

Mr. Fogo picked himself up and felt for his spectacles; they had tumbled off in his flight, and without them his face presented a curiously naked appearance. The alarum in his pocket had stopped suddenly with the jerk of his descent.

"I beg your pardon," he mildly apologised, "but a bull in the next field—"

"That's no cause for selectin' a gentl'm'n's stomach to tumble 'pon, growled the tramp.

"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," repeated Mr. Fogo; "you may be sure that had time for selection been allowed me—"

"Look 'ere," said the tramp with sudden ferocity, "will you fight?"



Mr. Fogo retreated a step.

"Really—"

"Come, look sharp! You won't? Then I demands 'arf-a-crown."

With this the ruffian began to tuck up his ragged cuffs, and was grimly advancing. Mr. Fogo leapt back another pace.

"Cl'k—Whir-r-r-r-roo-oo-oo!"

This time the alarum was his salvation. The tramp pulled up, gave a hasty terrified stare, and with a cry of "The Devil!" made off across the field as fast as his legs would carry him. Overcome with the emotions of the last few minutes Mr. Fogo sat suddenly down, and the alarum ceased.

When he recovered he found himself in an awkward predicament. He knew of but one way homewards, and that was guarded by the bull; moreover, if he attempted to find another road he was hampered by the loss of his spectacles, without which he could not see a yard before his nose.

However, anything was better than facing the bull again; so he arose, picked the brambles out of his clothing, and started cautiously across the field.

As luck would have it he found a gate; but another field followed, and a third, into which he had to climb by the hedge. And here he suffered from a tendency known to all mountaineers who have lost their way in a mist; unconsciously he began to trend away towards the left, and as this led him further and further from home, his plight became every moment more desperate.

At last he struck into a narrow lane, just as the sun sank. He halted for a moment to consider his direction.

"Pat—pat—pat."

He looked up. A little girl in an immense sun-bonnet was toddling up the lane towards him. She swung a satchel in her left hand, and at sight of the stranger paused with her unoccupied forefinger in mouth.

Mr. Fogo advanced straight up to her, stooped with his hands on his knees, and peered into her face. This behaviour, though necessitated by his shortness of sight, worked the most paralysing effect on the child.

"Little girl, can you tell me the way to Kit's House?"

There was no answer. Mr. Fogo peered more closely.

"Little girl, can you tell me the way to Kit's House?"

Still there was no answer.

"Little girl—"

"Cl'k—whir-r-r-r-roo-oo !"

The effect of the alarum was instantaneous.

"Boo-hoo!" yelled the little girl, and broke into a paroxysm of weeping.

"Little girl—"

"Boo-hoo! Take me home. I want mammy!"



"Dear me," cried Mr. Fogo wildly, "this is the most appalling situation in which I have ever been placed." He thought of running away, but his humanity forbade it. At length the alarum ran down; but the child continued to scream—

"I want mammy! Take me home!"

"Hush! hush! She shall go to mammy—ickle tootsey shall go to mammy. Did-ums want-ums mammy?" shouted Mr. Fogo, with an idiotic effort to soothe.

But it was useless. The screams merely increased in volume. Mr. Fogo, leaning against the hedge, mopped his brow and looked helplessly around.

"What on earth is to be done?"

There was a sudden sound of light footsteps, and then, to his immense relief, Tamsin Dearlove stood before him. She looked as fresh and neat as ever and carried a small basket on her arm.

"Whatever is the matter? Why, 'tis little Susie Clemow! What's the matter, Susie?" She set down her basket and ran to the child, who immediately ceased to yell.

"There now, that's better. Did the big strange gentleman try to frighten her? Poor little maid!"

"I assure you," said Mr. Fogo, "I tried to do nothing of the kind."

Tamsin paid no attention.

"There now, we're as good as gold again, and can run along home. Give me a kiss first, that's a dear."

The little maid, still sobbing fitfully, gave the kiss, picked up her satchel, and toddled off, leaving Tamsin and Mr. Fogo face to face.

"Why did you frighten her?" the girl asked severely. There was an angry flush on her cheek.

"I did not intentionally. It was the alarum. First of all I was chased by a bull, and then—" Mr. Fogo told his story incoherently. The angry red left Tamsin's cheek, and a look of disdain succeeded.

"And you," she said very slowly, when he had finished, "think you are able to despise womankind."

It was Mr. Fogo's turn to grow red.

"And to put up a board," she continued, "with that silly Notice upon it—you and that great baby Caleb Trotter—setting all women at naught, when you never ought to be beyond tether of their apron-strings. Why, only this morning you'd have caught a sun-stroke if I hadn't spread your umbrella over you."

"Did you do that?"

"And who else do you suppose? A man, perhaps? Why, there isn't a man in the world would have had the sense—'less it was Peter or Paul," she added, with a sudden softening of voice, "and they're women in everything but strength. And now," she went on, "as I am going that way, I suppose you'll want me to see you home. Will you walk in front or behind, for doubtless you're above walking beside a woman?"

"I think you are treating me very hardly."

"Maybe I am, and maybe I meant to. Maybe you didn't know that that Notice of yours might hurt people's feelings. Don't think I mean mine," she explained quickly and defiantly, "but Peter's and Paul's."

There was a pause as they walked along together.

"The board shall come down," said he; "and now may I carry your basket?"

"My basket? Do you think I'd trust a man to carry eggs?" She laughed, but with a trace of forgiveness.

He did not answer, but seemed to have fallen into a fit of troubled contemplation. They walked on in silence.

Presently she halted.

"I doubt you've had trouble in your time, and I've hurt your feelings and spoken as I oughtn't to have spoken to my betters; but I've seen that Peter and Paul were hurt in mind, and that made me say more than I meant. Yonder's your way down to Kit's House. Good-night, sir."

Mr. Fogo would have held out his hand, but she was gone quickly down the road. He stood for a minute looking after her; then turned and walked quickly down the path to Kit's House.

Caleb met him at the door.

"So you'm back, an' I hopes you enj'yed your walk, as Sal said when her man comed home from France. I was just a-comin' to luk for 'ee. Where's your easy-all and your umbrella?"

Mr. Fogo told his story.

"H'm!" said Caleb, "an' Tamsin saw 'ee home?"

"Yes; and by the way, Caleb, you may as well take down that notice to-morrow."

"H'm!" muttered Caleb again. "You're quite sure thicky coddysel won't do?"

"Quite."

"Very well, sir," said Caleb, and began to busy himself with the evening meal. But he looked curiously at his master more than once during the evening. Mr. Fogo spent most of his time in a brown study, smoking and gazing abstractedly into the fire. Caleb also smoked (it was one of his privileges), and finally, with an anxious glance, and two or three hard puffs at his pipe, broke the silence—

"The bull es a useful animal, an' when dead supplies us wi' rump-steaks an' shoe-horns, as the Sunday-school book says: but for all that there's suthin' lackin' to a bull. 'Tain't conviction: you niver seed a bull yet as wasn' chuck-full o' conviction, an' didn' act up to hes rights, such as they be. An' 'tain't consistency: you drill a notion into a bull's head an' fix et, an' he'll save et up, may be for six year, an' then rap et out on 'ee till you'm fairly sick for your own gad-about ways. 'Tes logic he wants, I reckon—jest logic. A bull, sir, es no more'n a mass o' blind onreas'ning prejudice from horn to tail. Take hes sense o' colour: he can't abide red. Ef you press the matter, there ain't no more reas'n for this than that hes father afore him cudn' abide et; but how does he act? 'Hulloa!' says he, 'there's a party in red, an' I don't care a tinker's cuss whether 'tes a mail-cart or a milisha-man: I'm bound to stop this 'ere taste for red ef I dies nex' minnit.' And at et he goes accordin'. Ef he seed the Scarlet Woman about in his part o' the country, he'd lay by an' h'ist her, an' you'd say, 'Well done!' an' I don't say you'd be wrong. But jest you stop an' ax hes motives, an' you'll find 'taint religion. Lor' bless 'ee, sir, a bull's got no more use for religion than a toad for side-pockets. 'Tes obstinacy—that's what 'tes. You tells me a jackass es obstinate. Well, an' that's true in a way; and so's a hog. Ef you wants quiet contrariness, a jackass or a hog'll both sit out a bull; an' tho' you may cuss the pair till you sweats like a fuz'-bush on a dewy mornin', 'tes like heavin' bricks into a bott'mless pit. But a bull ups an' lets 'ee know; there aint no loiterin' round an' arrangin' yer subjec' under heads when he's about. You don't get no pulpit; an', what's more, you don't stop to touch your hat when you makes your congees. 'Tes just pull hot-foot, and thank the Lord for hedges; 'cos he's so full o' his own notions as a Temp'rance speaker, an' bound to convence 'ee, ef he rams daylight in 'ee to do et. That's a bull. An' here's anuther p'int; he lays head to ground when hes beliefs be crossed, an' you may so well whissle as try the power o' the human eye—talkin' o' which puts me i' mind o' some curious fac's as happ'n'd up to Penhellick wan time, along o' this same power o' the human eye. Maybe you'd like to hear the yarn."

"Eh?" Mr. Fogo roused himself from his abstraction. "Yes, certainly, I should like to hear it."

Caleb knocked his pipe meditatively against the bars of the grate; filled it again and lit it; took an energetic pull or two, and then, after another hard look at his master across the clouds of smoke, began without more ado.



CHAPTER XI.

OF A WESLEYAN MINISTER THAT WOULD IMPROVE UPON NATURE, AND THEREBY TRAINED A ROOK TO GOOD PRINCIPLES.

"Well, sir, et all happen'd when I lived up to Penhellick, an' worked long wi' Varmer Mennear. Ould Lawyer Mennear, as he was a-nicknamed—a little cribbage-faced man, wi' a dandy-go-russet wig, an' on'y wan eye: leastways, he hadn' but wan fust along when I knowed 'n. That's what the yarn's about, tho'; so us'll go slow, ef you plaise, an' hush a bit, as Mary Beswetherick said to th' ingine-driver.

"Now, Lawyer Mennear was a circuit-preacher, o' the Wesleyan Methody persuash'n, tho' he'd a-got to cross-pupposes wi' the rest o' the brethren an' runned a sect all to hissel', which he called th' United Free Church o' 'Rig'nal Seceders. They was called 'Rig'nal Seceders for short, an' th' ould man had a toler'ble dacent followin', bein' a fust-class mover o' souls an' powerful hot agen th' unregenrit, which didn' prevent hes bein' a miserable ould varmint, an' so deep as Garrick in hes ord'nary dealin's. Aw, he was a reg'lar split-fig, an' 'ud go where the devil can't, an' that's atween the oak an' the rind."

"I see," said Mr. Fogo.

"Iss, sir. Why, the very fust day I tuk sarvice—I was a tiny tacker then—he says to me, 'Caleb, my boy, you'm lookin' all skin an' bones for the present, but there's no knawin' what Penhellick beef and pudden may do for 'ee yet, ef 'tes eaten wi' a thankful heart. Hows'ever, 'bout the work. I wants you to take the dree jackasses an' go to beach for ore-weed, an' as I likes to gie a good boy like you a vew privileges, you be busy an' carry so many seams [1] as you can, an' I'll gie drappence for ivery seam more'n twenty.'

"Well, sir, I worked like a Trojan, an' ha'f killed they jackasses; an' I tell 'ee 'twas busy all to carry dree-an'-twenty seam. In the eveling, arter work, I went to Lawyer Mennear an' axed 'n 'bout the nine-pence—I niver got ninepence so hard in all my born days. When he paid me, he looked so sly, an' says he—

"' You'm a nation clever boy, you be, an' I doan't gridge 'ee the money. But now I sees what you can do, of cou'se I shall 'spect 'ee to carry dree-an'-twenty seam ivery day, reg'lar: for the workman,' says he, 'es worthy of hes hire.'

"'Darn et!' thought I to mysel', 'this won't do;' an' I niver seed azackly the beef an' pudden th' ould man talked about. Hows'ever, I stayed wi' the psalmas-'untin' ould cadger, tho' et made me 'most 'mazed at times to hear the way he'd carry on down at the Meetin' House 'bout the sen o' greed an' the like, an' all the time lookin' round to see who owed 'n a happeny. 'My brethren,' he'd call out, 'my pore senful flock, ef you clings to your flocks an' herds, an' tents an' dyed apparel, like onto Korah shall you be, an' like onto Dathan an' Abiram, so sure as I be sole agent for Carnaby's Bone Manure in this 'ere destrict.' 'Tes true, sir. An' then he'd rap out the hemn, 'Common metre, my brethren, an' Sister Tresidder'll gie the pitch—"

'Whativer, Lord, us lends to Thee Repaid a thousan'fold'll be, Then gladly will us gie to Thee.'

"An' I reckon that was 'bout the size o't. Aw, he was an anointed ould rascal.

"All the same, Lawyer Mennear was reckon'd a powerful wrastler en the sperrit by the rest o' the Church-Membership; on'y there was wan thing as went agen 'un, an' that was he hadn' but wan eye; tho' Maria Chirgwin, as was known to have had experience, an' was brought under conviction by th' ould man, told me that et made 'n luk the more terrifyin'—"

"Like Polyphemus," put in Mr. Fogo.

"Polly which?"

"Never mind."

"I disknowledged the surname. But niver mind, as you say, sir; feelin's es feelin's, an' th' ould Mennear's wan eye went mortal agen 'un. Not but what he wudn' turn et to account now an' then. 'Tummas doubted,' he said wan day, 'an' how was he convenced? Why, by oracular demonstrashun—'"

"Ocular, Caleb."

"Right you are, sir, an' thankye for the correcshun, as the boy said to the pupil-teacher; 'by oc-u-lar demonstrashun,' says he. 'P'raps you dunno what ocular demonstrashun es, my brethren. Well, I'll tell 'ee. That's a wall, ain't et? An' I'm a preacher, arn't I? An' you be worms, bain't 'ee? Why, I can see that much tho' I han't but wan eye. An' that's ocular demonstrashun.'

"But, as I was sayin', wan eye es a wisht business, howsomever you may turn et up'ards an' call et your thorn i' the flesh, an' the likes; an' more'n a few o' the 'Rig'nal Seceders fell away from th' ould man's Meetin' House, and became backsliders dro' fear o' being overlooked an' ill-wished, so they said. I reckon 'twas all quignogs, but et did luk plaguey like th' evil eye, an' that there's no denyin'.

"Well, sir, matters went on i' this way for a brave time, an' the 'tendance got less, till Lawyer Mennear wos fairly at hes wits' end. He talked a' weak-kneed brethren, an' 'puttin' your han's to the plough,' an' dreshed the pilm [2] out o' cush'n afore 'un, an' kicked up a purty dido, till you cou'd hear the randivoose o' Sunday mornin's 'way over t'other side o' Carne hill; but 'twarn't no manner o' good. An' as for the childer at the Sunday-school—th' ould rapscallion laid powerful store by hes Sunday-school—'twas 'bear a hand ivery wan' to get mun to face that eye: an' you mou't clane their faces an' grease their hair as you wou'd, the mothers told me, an' see mun off 'pon the road to Meetin' House; but turn your back, an' they'd be mitchin' [3] in a brace o' shakes an' 'way to go for Coombe beach, an' playin' hidey-peep in their clane pinnyfores 'mong the rocks.

"Aw, 'twas shee-vo! 'mong the Church Members, an' no mistake; an' how 'twud ha' come round, there's no telling, ef et hadn' a-been for what Lawyer Mennear called a vouchsafement o' marcy. An' the way thicky vouchsafement comed about was this:

"Th' ould man was up to Plymouth wan day 'bout some shares he'd a-tuk in a tradin' schooner; for he'd a finger in most pies. Nuthin' i' the way o' bus'ness comed amiss to'n. Like Nicholas Kemp, he'd occashun for all."

"Who was Nicholas Kemp?" inquired Mr. Fogo.

"On'y a figger o' speech, sir. Well, ould Mennear had a-done bus'ness, an' was strollin' up Union Street 'long wi' his missus— Aunt Deb'rah Mennear, as her name was—a fine, bowerly woman, but a bit ha'f-baked in her wits; put in wi' the bread, as they say, an' tuk out wi' the cakes—when he fetches up 'pon a sudden afore a shop-windey. There was crutches inside, an' jury-legs fash'ned out o' cork, an' plaster heads drawn out in maps wi' county-towns marked in, an' bumps to show why diff'rent folks broke diff'rent Commandments, an' rows o' teeth a-grizzlin', an' blue spectacles, an' splints enough to camp-shed a thirty-acred field, an' ear-trumpets an' malignant growths—"

"Malignant growths?"

"Iss, sir—in speerits o' wine. But what tuk th' ould man's notice were a trayful o' glass eyes put out for sale i' the windey, an' lookin' so nat'ral as life—blue eyes, brown eyes, eyes as black as a sloan, [4] an' others, they told me, as went diff'rent colours 'cordin' as you looked at mun. Anyway, ould Mennear pulled up short an' clinched Deb'rah by the elbow.

"'Like onto the fishpools in Heshbon!' says he; an' wi' that he bounses into the shop.

"'How much for them eyes?' he axes.

"'Do 'ee want the lot?' says the chap in the shop, a reg'lar little dandy-sprat, an' so pert as a jay-pie in June. ''Cos us makes a reducshun on takin' a quantity,' says he.

"'Wan'll do for me,' says Lawyer Mennear.

"'They be two pund-ten apiece,' says the whipper-snapper, 'an' ten shillin' for fixin'.'

"Well, sir, you may fancy th' ould man's face when he heerd the price. He sot down, like as ef the wind was tuk out of hes sails, an' says he—'I'll gie thirty shillin.'

"The shopman wudn' ha' this; so at et they went, higglin' an' hagglin' on til 'twas agreed at las' he shud ha' the eye for two pund-five, fixin's included. 'Twas like drawin' blood from a stone; but th' ould man had done a stroke of bus'ness that day, so in th' end he pulls out hes bag an' tells out the money 'pon the counter.

"'An' now,' says the whipper-snapper, 'which'll 'ee ha'? Grey's the colour, I reckons, ef you wants a match.'

"'Drat the colour!' says ould Mennear, 'I've a-paid my price, an' I'll ha' the biggest, ef et be bassomy-red.' [5]

"Well, the shopman laffs, o' cou'se, but lets 'n ha' hes own way; an' th' ould man picked out the biggest—bright blue et was, suthin' the colour of a hedgy-sparrer's egg, an' shiny-clear like a glass-alley. They was a brave long while gettin' et fixed, 'cos 'twas so big. Ef he'd a-been content an' took a smaller wan, he'd ha' done better: but he was bound to be over-reachin', was th' ould varmint, an' so he comed to grief, as you shall hear. There's many folks i' this world be knowin' as Kate Mullet."

"I never heard of that lady," said Mr. Fogo.

"There's not much to know, sir, 'cept that they say her was hanged for a fool. Hows'ever, to shorten the yarn, ould Mennear got hes eye fixed at las', an' went home wi' Aunt Deb'rah so pleased as Punch.

"Nex' Sunday 'twas Hamlet's Ghost 'mong the 'Rig'nal Seceders, an' no mistake! Some o' the female members fell to screamin' so soon as iver they clapped eyes on th' ould man, an' Sister Trudgeon was tuk wi' a fit, an' had to be carr'd out wi' two deacons to her head an' two to her heels, an' kickin' so that Deacon Hoskins cudn' master hes vittles for up a fortni't, he was that hurted internally. An' the wust was, that what wi' the rumpus an' her singin' out 'Pillaloo!' an' how the devil was amongst mun, havin' great wrath, the Lawyer's sarmon about a 'wecked an' 'dulterous generation seekin' arter a sign' was clean sp'iled. Arter the sarvice, too, there was a deal of discussin'. Some said 'twas senful to interfere wi' Natur' i' that way, an' wrong in a purfessin' Christian like Mennear; an' all agreed the new eye gave 'n a janjansy [6] kind o' look, 'as ef,' said Deacon Hoskins, 'he was blinchin' [7] fifty ways for Grace.' There was some talk, too, about axin' the old man to resign; but nuthin' came o't. An' arter a time, when the congregashun got a bit reconciled, folks began to allow the new eye improved Mennear's pulpit manner, an' guessed that, arter all, et mou't be a powerful engine for effectual salvashun. Et had a dead appearance, ef you understands me, sir, and yet a sort o' gashly wakefulness, like a thing onhuman, 'cos o' cou'se et niver winked; th' ould man cudn' ha' winked, not for a fi'-pund note, for the thing was that big et strained his eyelid like a drum. 'Sides which, et had a way o' keepin' order 'mong the worshippers that you cudn' believe onless you seed it; for, let alone the colour o't, you niver knawed whether 'twas fixed on you or ten pews off, but somehow felt dead-sure 'twas you all the time, an' cudn' ha' moved, not if you had a blue-tailed fly inside the back o' your collar.

"Well, sir, nat'rally the Meetin' House began to fill agen, at fust out o' curiosity, but by-'m-by the list of Admitted Members began to fill up. Folk cudn' hold out when th' ould Lawyer ramped on 'bout t' other world an' there was that eye fixin' mun an' lookin' as though et had been there. I needn' tell 'ee th' ould man wore et ivery Sunday: 'deed, he wore et most days, but tuk et out o' nights, I've heerd, for 'twudn' shut when he slep', but used to scare ould Deb'rah Mennear fairly out of her sken o' moonshiny nights, when the light comed in 'pon et. An' even when her got 'n to lave et off, her used allays to put a tay-cup 'pon top o't afore closin' an eye.

"So et went on, sir, till wan Sunday mornin', when the Lawyer was fairly warmin' to hes work over the weckedness o' backsliders an' the wrath to come, he whacks the cush'n more'n ord'nary vi'lent, an' I reckon that made the eye work loose. Anyway, out et drops, and clatters down along the floor o' the Meetin' House.

"Now Deacon Hoskins i' them days had charge o' the Sunday-school boys. He was a short-sighted man, the Deacon, tho' that were hes misfortun'; but he had faults as well, an' wan o' these was a powerful knack o' droppin' off to sleep durin' sarmon-time. Hows'ever, he managed very tidily, for he knawed he was bound to wake hissel' so soon as he began to snore, an' then he'd start up sudden an' fetch the nighest boy a rousin' whistcuff 'pon the side o' the head to cover the noise he'd made, an' cry out, 'I've a-caught 'ee agen, ha' I? I'll tache 'ee to interrup' the word o' Grace wi' your gammut [8] an' may-games!'—an' he'd look round like as ef he'd say, 'Sorry to interrup', brethren, but desceplin' es desceplin'!' Many's the time I've a-seed 'n do this, an' you may take my word, sir, 'twas so good as a play!"

Now this morning Deacon Hoskins was takin' forty winks as ushul, when the clatter made by th' ould Mennear's eye makes 'n set up, wide-awake an' starin'. This time, jedgin' by the noise, he tuk a consait that the boys had been a-playin' marbles sure 'nuff; so he takes two at haphazard, knacks their heads togither, an' then looks about. Fust thing he sees es th' eye lying out 'pon the aisle an' lookin' for all the world like a big shiny glass-alley.

"I told 'ee, sir, the Deacon were short o' sight. He hadn' a doubt by this time the boys had been foolin' about wi' marbles, so he reaches out, grabs the eye, an' slips et into hes trowsy-pocket; an' then he takes a glance round, so much as to say, 'I reckon the owner of this 'ere glass-alley'll ha' to wait afore he sees 'n agen.'

"In cou'se, the rest o' the brethren knawed what had happened, an' wan or two fell to titterin' a bit; but altogether there was a kind o' breathlessness for a moment or so, an' then th' ould Mennear sings out from the pulpit—

"'Brother Hoskins, I'll trouble you to kindly pass up that eye.'

"Deacon Hoskins stared a bit, but was too short o' sight to see what the matter was.

"'Eh?' says he.

"'Hand up that eye, ef you plaise.'

"'What eye?' says the Deacon.

"Th' ould Mennear stamped and seemed fit to swear.

"'Why, my eye, you nation bufflehead!' The Lawyer didn't mind much what he said when hes back was up; an' arter all 'twere, in a kind o' way, 'scuseable.

"'Look 'ere,' answers back the Deacon, 'ef you've drapped your eye, an' be that fond o' the cheap-jack thing that you can't get on wi'out et, send round Deacon Spettigue to hunt, an' not a man as can't see sax inches afore hes nose. Et's out o' reas'n,' he said, 'an' you ort to know better.'

"In cou'se, tho', when he found out hes mistake an' lugged the thing out o' hes pocket, there was Bedlam let loose, for up five minnits, ivery mother's son chitterin' an' laffin, an' the Deacon lookin' like a pig in a fit. He desarted the Seceders that very week, an' niver darken'd the Meetin' House door agen to the day o' hes death.

"Well, the fuss got calmed over, but somehow the Lawyer cudn' niver trust hes eye as he used to. He said 'twarn't fully dependable; an', sure 'nuff, within a month et slipped out agen, and th' ould man was forced to go to Plymouth an' buy another, a bit smaller. So he lost by his mean ways arter all. He tried to trade back th' ould eye, but the shopman wudn'; so he brought et home in hes pocket, and laid it by in the chaney cupboard, 'long wi' the cloam, [9] an' there et bided.

"An' now, sir, I'm a-comin' to the most curiosest part o' my yarn: an' you can believe or no, as you thinks fit, but I'll tell 'ee jest what I knows an' no more.

"Some two year arter, Lawyer Mennear tuk a corner out o' the twenty-acred field—a little patch to the right o' the gate as you went in—an' planted et wi' green peas. Six rows he planted, an' beautiful peas, too, on'y the birds wudn' let mun ha' a chance. Well, at las' th' ould man got mad, an' stuck me 'pon top o' the hedge wi' a clapper to scare the birds away; 'sides which, to make sure, he rigged up a scarecrow. 'Twas a lovely scarecrow: two cross-sticks an' the varmer's own coat—'twas the coat he'd a-got married in forty year afore. He gied et to me when the scarecrow had done wi' et, an' the tails were so long as an Act o' Parlyment. 'Top o' this was a whackin' big turmut by way o' face, wi' a red scarf round the neck—from Aunt Deb'rah's petticoat—an' wan o' th' ould man's left-off wigs 'pon the crown, an' a high-poll hat, a bit rusted wi' Sunday obsarvance, to finish. Did I say 'to finish'?

"Well, then, I said wrong. 'Cos jest when I'd a-rigged 'n up, down comes Aunt Deb'rah an' cries out, 'Aw, Caleb, here be suthin' more! Do 'ee fix et in, that's a dear; an' ef et don't scare away any bird as iver flied, then,' says she, 'I'm wuss nor any bird'; an' wi' that she opens her hand an' gies me the Lawyer's cast-off eye.

"So I outs wi' my pocket-knife an' digs a hole in the turmat face, an' inside o' ten minnits there was the scarecrow finished off. Aw, sir, 'twas a beautiful scarecrow; an' when us stuck et up, I tell 'ee that from the kitchen windeys, three hundred yards away, et seemed like life itsel'.

"Well, sir, fust day 'twas stuck there, I sot beside the hedge, round the corner, watchin', and while I sot two queerish things happen'd— tho' the fust warn't so queer nuther, but jest human natur', when you comes to consider et. 'Twas this. I hadn' been there an hour afore two score an' dree wimmen—I knows, 'cos I kep' count—came, wan arter anuther, down to the gate to make sheep's eyes at that scarecrow, havin' heerd as there was a well-dressed lad down among the peas. An' that's true, ef I swears et 'pon the Book."

"Ah!" was Mr. Fogo's only comment.

"Iss, sir; an' well you may say so. But the nex' thing I noticed was a sight queerer. In fac' I dunno but et's the queerest go I iver heard tell 'bout. But you may jedge for yoursel'.

"I'd been a-settin' there for the best part o' two hour, an' keepin' count o' how wan bird arter another comed up for they peas, an' turned tail at sight o' the scarecrow. For et didn' seem like no ord'nary scarecrow, sir, wi' that eye a-glintin' in the sunshine. I cou'd see 't from where I sot—an' so the birds thought. Well, wan arter another, they steps up an' flies off as ef hurried for time, when by-'m-by 'long comes an ould rook.

"He jest sa'ntered up quite leisurable, did this rook, an' lit 'pon a pea-stick to take a blinch round. Nat'rally he cotches sight o' the scarecrow, an' nat'rally I looked for 'n to turn tail, like the rest. But no, sir.

"Where he was, the scarecrow's back was t'wards 'un, an' th' ould bird jest looks et up an' down, an' this way an' that, an' cocks his head 'pon wan side, an' looks agen an' chuckles, for all the world as ef to say, 'Et looks like a man, an' 'tis fixed like a man; but dash my wig! ef 'tain't a scarecrow an' no more, I ain't fit to live in an age o' imitashuns.'

"Well, he jest sot an' sot, an' arter a while he began for to taste the flavour o' the joke, an' then he lay back an' laffed, did that bird, till he was fit to sweat. I reckoned I'd a-heerd birds laff afore this, but I made an error. My 'ivens, sir! but he jest clinched on to that pea-stick, an' shook the enj'yment out of hissel' like a conjurer shellin' cannon-balls from a hat. An' then he'd stop a bit, an' then fall to hootin' agen, till I was forced to laff too, way back behind the hedge, for cumpanny. An' ivery time he noted a fresh bit o' likelihood in the scarecrow he'd go off in a fresh fit. I thought he'd niver ha' done.

"But in a while he hushed, an' waited a bit to calm hes nerves, an' stepped down off the pea-stick. Thinks I, 'What es he up to now?' An' I stood up to see, but quiet-like, so's I shudn' scare 'n.

"I hadn' long to wait. He jest steps up behind the scarecrow, makes a leg, so grave as you plaise, an' commences for to dance round 'un— fust 'pon wan leg, then 'pon t'other—like as ef 'twas a haythen dancin' round a graven image. But the flauntin' ins'lence o't, sir! The brazen, fleerin' abusefulness! Not a feather, ef you'll believe me, but fairly leaked wi' ribaldry—jest leaked.

"Th' ould bird had got ha'f-way round, a-mincin' an' japin', an' throwin' out hes legs this way an' that an' gettin' more boldacious an' ondacent wi' ivery step, when he cocks his head askew for a second, jest to see how the pore image was a-takin' o't, an' that moment he catches the scarecrow's eye.

"Aw, sir, to see the change as comed over that bird! The forthiness [10] went out o'n for all the world like wind out 'n a pricked bladder; an' I reckon nex' minnit there warn't no meaner, sicklier-lookin' critter atween this an' Johnny Groats' than that ould rook. There was a kind o' shever ran through 'n, an' hes feathers went ruffly-like, an' hes legs bowed in, an' he jes' lay flat to groun' and goggled an' glazed up at that eye like a dyin' duck in a thunderstorm. 'Twas a rich sight, sir; an' how I contrived not to bust mysel' wi' laffin', es more'n I can tell 'ee to this day.

"So he lay for up ten minnits, an' then he staggered up 'pon hes feet an' sneaked out o' them peas like a chuck-sheep dog, an' the repent'nce a-tricklin' out 'n ivery pore. He passed me by that close I cou'd ha' knacked 'n over wi' a stick, but he didn' see me more'n ef I'd a'been a pisky-man. [11] All hes notiss, I reckon, were for that gashly eye; an' he looked back ivery now and agen, like as ef he'd say, 'I be but worms; an', wuss nor that, I've a-been a scoffin', lyin', Sabbath-breakin' ould worms; but do 'ee let me off this wance, an' I'll strive an' wrastle,' he seemed to say, 'an' do purty well all a rook can to be gathered to the fold.' An' wi' that he slinks over th' hedge an' out o' sight.

"Well, sir, I didn' see 'n agen nex' day, nor for many days arter; but on Sunday-week, as et mou't be, i' the mornin' I'd a-took French lave an' absented mysel' from Meetin' House, an' were quietly smokin' my pipe up in the town-place, [12] when I hears a chitterin' an' a chatterin' like as 'twere a little way off; an' lookin' down t'wards the twenty-acred field, I seed 'twere black wi' rooks—fairly black, sir—black as the top o' your hat. Thinks I, 'I reckon here's some new caper,' an' I loafes down to see the fun.

"I stales down the lane, an' looks over the gate, an' when I takes in, at las', what 'tes all about, my!—you mou't ha' knacked me down wi' a feather! 'Twas a prayer-meetin' them rooks was a-holdin', sir, as I'm a senner. The peas was fairly hid wi' the crowd, an' 'twas that thick I counted sax 'pon wan pea-stick. An' in the middle, jes' onder the scarecrow, stood up th' ould rook I'd a-seen afore, an' told hes experiences. He ramped, an' raved, an' mopped, an' mowed, an' kep' a-noddin' his head t'wards the scarecrow, to show how hes salvashun was worked; an' all the time the rest o' the rooks sat still as mice. On'y when he pulls up to breathe a bit, they lets out an' squalls, as ef to say, 'Amen. 'Tes workin'—'tes workin'! Pray strong, brother!' an' at et he'd go agen, same as he must. An' at las', when 'twas 'hold breath or bust' wi' 'un, he ups an' starts a hemn, an' they all jines in, till you mou't hear the caprouse [13] two mile off. That were the finish, too; for arter the row died away, there was a minnit or so o' silent prayer, an' then the whole gang gets up off they pea-sticks an' sails away for Squire Tresawsen's rookery, t'other side o' the hill.

"Well, in cou'se I tells the tale, an' was called a liard for my pains. But the same thing happen'd nex' Sunday, an' the Sunday arter—an' not a pea stolen all the time—an' a good few people comed down behind the hedge to see, an' owned up as I were right. Et got to be the talk o' the country; an' how 'twud ha' ended, goodness on'y knaws, ef I hadn' a-spi'led the sport mysel'. An' how I did so, you shall hear.

"Wan day I tuk a consait as 'twud be a game to take away the scarecrow's eye an' see what happen'd. So, late 'pon a Sat'rday night, down I goes an' digs out the eye wi' my jack-knife, an' lays et careful down 'pon the ground beside et, an' so off to bed.

"Nex' mornin' I were down waitin' some time afore the rooks was due, an' by-'m-by, about 'leven in the forenoon, 'long they comes by the score, an' takes the sittin's 'pon the pea-sticks. They was barely settled, when out steps my ould rook an' walks up to the scarecrow to lead off same as ushul.

"He gives a shake o' the head to set hes jawin'-tacks loose, casts a glance up'ards t'wards the eye, jes' to fetch inspirashun, an' starts back like as ef shot. You cou'd see the 'stonishment clinch 'n, an' the look o' righteousness melted off hes face like snow in an oven. For that bird had gifts, sir; an' wan o' these was a power o' fashul expresshun. Well, back he starts, an', with the same, cotches sight o' the eye lyin' 'pon the ground an' starin' up all heav'nly-blue an' smilin'.

"There was a pause arter this, jes' about so long as you cou'd count twenty; an' the rest o' the congregashun began to fidget an' whisper round that suthin' was up, when all 'pon a sudden my ould rook straightens hissel' up an' begins to cuss and to swear. What's that you say, sir? Rooks don't swear? Don't tell me. Blasphemin'? Why, in two minnits the air was stiff wi' blasphemy—you might ha' cut et wi' a knife. An' oaths? Why, you cou'd feel the oaths. An' there he sot an' cussed, an' cussed an' sot, an' let the hatefulness run out like watter from a pump.

"In cou'se, 'twarnt long afore the rest gather'd round to larn what the mess was, an' then there was Chevychace. They handed round the eye, an' looked at et this way an' that, an' 'splained what had happen'd wan to t'other; an' then they hushed an' stood quiet while their dasayved brother cussed hissel' out. Not a smile 'mongst the lot, sir; not a wink, as I be a truthful man.

"At las' he'd a-done, an' not too soon for hes lungs; an' then the lot sat down an' conseddered et out, an' still not a word for minnits togither. But all to wanst up starts a youngish-lookin' rook, an' makes a speech.

"'Twarn't a long speech, sir, an' nat'rally I didn't understand a word: but I cotched his drift in a minnit, tho'. For they rooks started up, walked back to their seats, an' what do 'ee think they did?"

"I couldn't pretend to guess," said Mr. Fogo.

"They jes' started that sarvice agan, sir, an' paradised et from start to finish. They mixed up ow jests wi' the prayers, an' flung in fancy yarns wi' their experiences, an' made a mock at th' exhortashun; an' what they sung in place o' the hemn, I don't know; but I do knaw this much—et warn't fit for a woman to list'n to.

"Well, I laffed—I was forced to laff—but arter a while et grew a bit too strong, an' I runned up to th' house to fetch down a few folks to look. I warn't away 'bove ten minnits; but when I comed back there warn't no rook to be seen, nor no eye nuther. They'd a-carr'd et off to Squire Tresawsen's rookery, an' et's niver been seen fro' that day to this."



There was silence for a few moments as Caleb finished his story and lit another pipe. Finally Mr. Fogo roused him to ask—

"What became of your master, Caleb?"

"Dead, sir—dead," answered Caleb, staring into the embers of the fire. "He lived to a powerful age, tho' albeit a bit totelin' [14] in hes latter days. But for all that he mou't ha' been like Tantra-bobus—lived till he died, or at least been a centurion—"

"A what?"

"Centurion, sir; otherwise a hundred years old. But he went round land [15] at las', an' was foun' dead in hes bed—o' heart-break, they did say, 'long o' his gran'-darter Joanna runnin' away wi' an army cap'n."

"Ah!" said Mr. Fogo, pensively, "she was a woman, was she not?"

"To be sure, sir; what elst?—a female woman, an' so baptised."

There was a moment's silence; then Caleb resumed—

"But contrari-wise, sir, the army cap'n was a man."

"Ah! yes, of course; let us be just—the army captain was a man. Caleb," said Mr. Fogo, with a sudden change from his pensive manner, "has it ever occurred to you to guess why I—not yet an old man, Caleb—am living in this solitude?"

"Beggin' your pard'n, sir, an' makin' so free as to guess, but were it a woman by any chance?"

"Yes," said his master, rising hurriedly and lighting his candle, "it was a woman, Caleb—it was a woman. You won't forget that Notice to-morrow morning, will you?—the first thing, if you please, Caleb."

Footnotes, Chapter XI [1] A cart-load. [2] Dust. [3] Playing truant. [4] Sloe. [5] Heather-coloured. [6] Two-faced. Qy. from Janus? [7] Prying, looking about. [8] Nonsense. [9] Crockery. Drinking in Troy is euphemistically called "emptyin' cloam." [10] Boldness, forwardness. [11] A fairy. [12] Farm-yard. [13] Noise, tumult. [14] Demented, imbecile. [15] Died.



CHAPTER XII.

OF DETERIORATION; AND A WHEELBARROW THAT CONTAINED UNEXPECTED THINGS.

Great events meanwhile were happening in Troy. On the eighth morning of his eclipse Admiral Buzza was startled by a brisk step upon the stairs; the devil's tattoo was neatly struck upon his bed-room door, and the head of Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys looked in.

"Ah! Admiral, here you are; like What's-his-name in the ruins of Thingummy. You'll pardon me coming up, but my wife is downstairs with Mrs. Buzza, and I was told I should find you here. Don't rise— 'no dress,' as they say. May I smoke? Thanks. And how are you by this time? I heard something of your mishap, but not the rights of it. I'll sit down, and you can tell me all about it."

Here was affability indeed. The Admiral conquered his first impulse of diving beneath the bed-clothes, and, lying back, recounted his misadventure at some length. The Honourable Frederic listened and smoked with perfect gravity. At the close he said—

"Very dirty treatment, 'pon my word; though I'm not sure I don't sympathise with the fellow in warning off the women. But why stay in bed?"

"There are feelings,"—began the Admiral.

"Ah! to be sure—injured feelings—ungrateful country—blow, blow, thou winter wind, &c. So you take to bed, like the Roman gentleman who went too; forget the place. Gets rid of the women, too; nuisance—women—when you're upset; nonsense, that about pain and anguish playing the deuce, and a ministering angel thou—tommy-rot, I call it. Can't be bothered, now, in bed—turn round and snore; wife has hysterics—snore louder. Capital! I've a mind to try the same plan when Geraldine is fussing and fuming. These infernal women—"

I am sorry to say that the Admiral, instead of defending Mrs. Buzza, began to exculpate Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

"But your wife is so charming, so—"

"Of course, my dear sir; so is Mrs. Buzza."

"She was termed the 'Belle of Portsmouth' at the Ball where I proposed to her," remarked the Admiral, with some complacency.

"To be sure; trust a sailor to catch the pretty girls—eh?"

The Admiral chuckled feebly.

"But these women—"

"Ah! yes; these women—"

"Bachelor life was pleasant—eh, Admiral?"

"Ah!"

The two men looked at each other. A smile spread over either countenance. I regret to say the Admiral winked, and then chuckled again.

"Admiral, you must get up."

The Admiral stared interrogatively; his visitor pursued, with some inconsequence—"By the way, is there a club here?"

"There's the 'Jolly Trojans' down at the 'Man-o'-War'; they meet on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and—"

"Low lot, I suppose?"

"Well, yes," admitted the Admiral; "a certain amount of good fellowship prevails, I understand; but low, of course—distinctly low."

The Honourable Frederic tapped his boot reflectively with his malacca.

"Admiral," he said at last, "you ought to found a Club here."

"Bless my heart! I never thought of it."

"It is your duty."

"You think so?"

"Sure of it."

"I will get up," said the Admiral decisively. He started out of bed, and looked around for his clothes.

"Nice place, the country," pursued the Honourable Frederic thoughtfully; "fresh eggs, and grass to clean your pipe with—but apt to be dull. Now, a pleasant little society; cards, billiards, and social reunions—select, of course—"

"Of course. Do you happen to be sitting on my trousers?"

"Eh? No, I believe—no. Let me see—limited loo and a modest pool of an evening. Hullo! what's the matter?"

The Admiral had rushed to the door.

"Emily!" he bawled down the stairs.

"Well, I'll be going. Can't find your trousers? Admiral, it's the last straw. But we'll be revenged, Admiral. We'll found a Club; and, by George, sir, we'll call it 'The Inexpressibles'! Ta-ta for the present," and Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys retired.

But what was being discussed below when the Admiral's voice disturbed his wife? Alas! you shall hear.

"These men," Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys was saying, "are all alike. But, my dear, why not disregard his absurd humours? I have revolted from Frederic long ago."

"You don't say so!"

"It is a fact. Take my advice and do the same. It needs courage at first, but they are all cowards—oh, such cowards, my dear! Revolt. Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip—"

"My dear, I should faint."

"Oh, poor soul! Reflect! How pretty the domestic virtues are, but how impossible! Besides, how unfashionable!"

Mrs. Buzza reflected.

"I will!" she exclaimed at last. Just then her husband's voice detonated in the room above. She arose, trembling like a leaf. "Be firm," said her adviser.

"I will."

"Sit down again. It will do him no harm to wait."

Mrs. Buzza obeyed, still trembling.

It was at this moment that the Honourable Frederic re-entered the room, and looked around with a slow smile.

"Nellie," he observed, when they were outside the house, "you're a vastly clever woman, my love."

"How's the Admiral?" was the reply.

"He nibbles, my angel; he bites."

"I heard him barkin'. An' how long will Brady be givin' us?"

"Two months, my treasure."

Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys reflected for a moment, and then made the following extraordinary reply—

"Be aisy, me dear. In six weeks I'll be ready to elope from yez."

What passed between the Admiral and Mrs. Buzza when they were left together was never fully known. But it was quickly whispered that in No. 2, Alma Villas, the worm had turned. Oddly enough, the spread of conjugal estrangement did not end here. It began to be rumoured that Lawyer Pellow and his wife had "differences "; that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson dined at different hours; and that the elder Miss Strip had broken off a very suitable match with a young ship's chandler, on the ground that ship's candles were not "genteel." It was about this time, too, that Mrs. Wapshot, at the confectionery shop, refused to walk with Mr. Wapshot on the Rope-walk after Sunday evening service, because domestic bliss was "horrid vulgar"; and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys' dictum that "one admirer, at least, was no more than a married woman's due," only failed of acceptance because the supply of admirers in Troy fell short of the demand. She had herself annexed Samuel Buzza and Mr. Moggridge.