Текст книги "A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh"

Автор книги: Russell Thorndike

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Chapter 31

A Certain Tree Bears Fruit

Jerk was kept busy all day at the Ship Inn, for Imogene had left her post and Mrs. Waggetts, who appeared to have grave matters of her own to fuss about, kept the young potboy in command. He was sorry about this, for he was unable to visit his estate upon the Marsh, and he was eager to view his latest purchase, the gallows. But to his great satisfaction he heard it discussed by a farmer and a fisherman who sat drinking at the bar.

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“I tell you that there’s a gallows erected on the Marsh nigh Littlestone Point,” the fisherman was saying. “I could see it quite plain at sunrise when we were running up on to the beach.”

“And you say that there was a man a-hangin’ from it?” said the farmer.

“Aye, that’s what I said, and I thought as how you could tell me what man it was.”

“I don’t know nothing,” replied the farmer, “except that the demon riders was out again last night, and if what you says is right, why, they’re at their tricks again, I suppose.” And the farmer gave the fisherman a knowing wink. However, this didn’t trouble Jerry, for the laugh was all on his side. Not content with an empty scaffold, he had gone out the night before, while Doctor Syn and the captain had been chatting in the sanded parlour, and collected two great sack full of dried sticks and sand, which, with the help of a few tightly knotted lengths of twine, he had converted into the semblance of a man, and

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this same dummy he had hanged from the rusty chain. It had looked splendid swinging there with the mist wrapped round its feet. This indeed was playing hangman’s games with a vengeance. Impatient as he was to see the fruits of his labour, impatient he had to remain, for he was not released till nightfall, when Mrs. Waggetts entered the bar with Sexton Mipps. Freed at last from duty, Jerry stopped outside, pulling his hat over his eyes and tucking up his collar, for the wind was blowing up for a cold night. He was leaving the yard with a brisk step when he noticed a cloaked figure coming to meet him. It was Imogene. Jerry stopped outside, pulling his hat over his eyes and tucking up his collar, for the wind was blowing up for a cold night. He was leaving the yard with a brisk step when he noticed a cloaked figure coming to meet him. It was Imogene.

“Jerry,” she whispered, “who put up that gallows on your plot of land?”

“It’s my gallows,” answered Jerry proudly. “I paid for it, and Mister Mipps it was wot helped me to set it up.”

“It’s a real one, Jerry,” the girl replied.

“Yes, that it is—and ain’t it fine?”

“But there’s a man, a real man hanging there.”

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At this Jerk slapped his knee with enthusiasm and cried aloud: “Now by all the barrels of rum! if I ain’t fit to take in the devil hisself, wot I believes is a sexton dressed up. For that same corpse wot you’ve seed a-danglin’ from my gallows ain’t a corpse at all, but sticks, sand, and sacks wot I invented to look like one.”

“Are you sure, Jerry?” said the girl.

“I’m a-goin’ out there myself now; so come along and see for yourself.”

“I’ve been there once this evening, Jerry.”

“Well, come along o’ me and you shall give the old scarecrow wot’s a-swing on my gallows a good sharp tweak in the ribs.” So off they set through the churchyard and out over the Marsh.

“Jerry,” whispered the girl presently, “there’s something queer going to happen soon. Perhaps to-night. Perhaps to-morrow night. And it’s something uncommon queer, too.”

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“Now what makes you think that?” said Jerry, looking up at her.

“I believe, Jerry, that there are certain tides that run from the Channel round Dungeness that wash up the dead seamen from the deep waters, and all the time that they lie near shore waiting for the ebb to take ’em back to their old wrecked ships in the deep their spirits come ashore and roam about us. I feel that way to-night. I can almost smell death in the air.”

“Well, that’s a funny notion,” remarked the boy, turning it over in his mind, “but I dare say you are right. After all, the sea, what does look so tidy on the top, must have lots of ugly secrets underneath, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t want to wash ’em ashore once in a way. I’ve often wondered myself about the dead what moves about inside the sea, and I thinks sometimes when the high tide runs into the great sluice and near fills the dykes that perhaps it buries things it’s sick of in the mud. P’raps it’s a-doin’ it now, and that’s wot’s given you them notions.”

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“Perhaps it is, Jerry.”

Now the mist was so thick that they did not get a far view of Jerk’s gallows; indeed they had crossed the one-planked bridge over the dyke and half climbed Gallows Tree Hill before they viewed it at all. But as soon as they did Jerry sprang forward crying: “Who’s been messing with my bag o’ sticks?”

The sacking had been torn, and from the slit appeared a hand. Jerry seized the hand and pulled. The rusty chain squeaked, and one of the rotten links “gave,” and the ghastly fruit of the gallows tree fell upon the young hangman, who was borne to the ground beneath the falling weight. Imogene, with a cry, pulled it from him, and Jerk scrambled to his feet. Then they both looked.

The mildewed sacking, wet with the dense mist, had severed in the fall; the threads had rent at a hundred points, and from the fragments of scattered debris the dead face of Rash looked up with protruding eyes that stared from the blood-streaked flesh.

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Jerk’s gallows had borne fruit.

For minutes they stood looking. The cloak had fallen from the girl’s shoulders, and the shrieking wind flapped in her rough dress and tore at her streaming hair. Jerk, with his ambitions fulfilled, found himself most uncomfortably scared. For minutes neither of them spoke. They could only stare. Stare at the huddled horror and listen to the jangle of the broken gibbet chain. Suddenly Imogene remembered something which brought her back to consciousness, for she spoke:

“Jerry, after seeing that, are you afraid to return to the village alone?”

Jerry had not yet found his voice, so he shook his head.

“Then go to the Court House and report what we’ve found to the squire, and tell him that Imogene has gone out to keep the rest of her promise.”

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Jerry got her to repeat the sentence again, and he watched her leap from the dyke and disappear into the mist, and then from behind the scaffold stepped the captain.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, potboy,” he said, seizing Jerk’s arm and leading him away from the scaffold. “I’ve other work for you to do. We’re going back to the village to make our experiment.”

As they stumbled across the Marsh, scrambling the dykes that skirted the fields, the wind got up off shore, scattering he mists and driving them across the sea toward the beacons of France. Half an hour later, as the captain and Hangman Jerk approached the vicarage, a small fishing boat, carrying no light but much sail, raced before the screaming wind toward Dungeness, and with a firm hand grasping the tiller and a great heart beating high, stood Imogene, blinded with lashing spray and her drenched streaming hair, fighting the cruel sea to keep her word to the squire.

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Chapter 32

The Captain’s Experiment

They entered the vicarage by the back door and found the bo’sun roasting chestnuts on the bars of the kitchen fire. There was another man there, with his back to the door, and by his black clothes and scholarly stoop Jerry recognized the vicar. So quietly had the captain opened the door that neither of the men roasting chestnuts was aware of their presence. They went on roasting the nuts, when an astonishing thing happened: The vicar, in trying to take out a hot chestnut from the fire, knocked three of the bo’sun’s into the red-hot coals, which so enraged the bo’sun that he administered with his forearm a

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resounding clump on the back of the cleric’s head. Jerry thought this a distinct liberty, but the vicar only laughed, and when he turned round Jerry saw that it was Morgan Walters dressed in an entire clerical suit, and not Doctor Syn at all.

Morgan Walters looked sheepish and uncomfortable when he beheld the captain, but the latter remarked that his “get-up” was magnificent, and that his black hair, which had been carefully sprinkled by the bo’sun with flour to make it gray, so nearly resembled that of the cleric, that Morgan Walters was evidently intended by Providence to be a parson, for such a capital one did he make. Thus encouraged, Morgan Walters strutted about the kitchen, and the likeness to Doctor Syn (for he was of the same build and Doctor Syn had always the sailor’s rolling gait) was so perfect that Jerk began to laugh, but was speedily hushed by the captain.

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“Now remember, Walters,” the captain said, “there’s no danger in this if you do exactly as I told you, but you will have to be spry, of course.”

“If he sticks me, then I deserves to be stuck,” replied Morgan Walters. “I’ve been Aunt Sally at the county fairs afore now, and never got whacked, not once. I always could bob down in time in those days, and I didn’t have no bo’sun’s whistle to help me.”

And then began the captain’s experiment, a most curious game, and, in spite of its tragic purpose, a humorous game it was.

The bo’sun, whistle in mouth, was hidden in the little front garden; the captain and Jerk crouched in the corner of the room of which the window had no view; while Morgan Walters, in all points resembling Doctor Syn, sat reading in the ingle seat by the fire—sat reading a book with his back to the window, from which the shutters had been thrown open and the broken casement set ajar. It was a weird occasion: the captain crouching down in the

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corner holding on to young Jerk with a warning hand, the bo’sun with his whistle hidden in the garden, and the firelight aided by one candle upon the table throwing the two wavering shadows of the pseudo parson upon the whitewashed wall. Jerk could hardly persuade himself that it was not the Doctor, so clever was the rig-out of Morgan Walters, and he could hardly forbear letting out a laugh as the crafty seaman kept turning the pages of the book. But he had ample time to control himself before anything happened; indeed, a whole hour he had to wait—an hour which seemed a lifetime; and then the occurrence was swift and terrible.

A shrill whistle sounded from the garden; down went Morgan Walters’s head; and with a thud which broke the surrounding wall plaster into a thousand powdery cracks, a great harpoon trembled in the wall, exactly one foot above the settle.

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“Gone!” shouted the bo’sun from the garden, and he immediately tumbled up through the window, closing the shutters behind him.

“Well, sir,” said Morgan Walters, “it wasn’t the ducking I minded when it came to it, but the waiting wasn’t pleasant.”

“You did well, my man,” said the captain. “And now, potboy, after that little experiment I’ll know how to proceed, how to prescribe like an analyzing apothecary, so, as it’s Sunday to-morrow, which ain’t so far off now, we’ll get back to the Ship Inn, bo’sun, and you can light us there, whilst Morgan Walters can change his clothes and get back and to sleep.”

So they left him there, the bo’sun with a lantern stepping before the captain and Jerk to the door of the Ship. Just as they reached the door a horseman galloped up from the Hythe Road and, saluting, asked if any could direct him to Captain Collyer. As soon as the captain had made himself known, Jerk saw the rider hand the captain a blue paper, which the latter put carefully into his

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pocket. Then he led the rider and the bo’sun into the sanded parlour and gave them drinks, after which he went home to bed and slept sound.

But back in the vicarage, just as Morgan Walters was about to divest himself of his ecclesiastical robes, Mr. Mipps entered with a loaded blunderbuss and requested him to turn round, hold his hands above his head, and precede him to the coffin shop at the farther end of the village.

Doctor Syn slept at the Court House, for he did not intend to go to the vicarage any more at night. He had a dread of that sitting-room of his. The horrible whirring of a certain weapon boring a whole through the shutter was still in his ears, and he could see a terrible eye, magnified by the bottle glass of the casement, looking in at him from the darkness. No, he had had enough of that room, he told himself, and so he welcomed the squire’s invitation to pass the night in the Court House. Complaining of fatigue, he went to his room, but the squire sat up late wondering how Imogene was faring, and whether or no

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she would succeed in rescuing his son, and how in the world she was setting about it. About two o’clock in the morning he detected a smell of burning. He went upstairs. The smell seemed to be coming from the room assigned to Doctor Syn, but there was only the firelight showing under the door, so thinking that the Doctor was asleep, he put his eye to the keyhole. But the Doctor was not asleep. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and the sleeves of the shirt were turned up. He was standing by the fireplace with a red-hot poker in his hand, looking at a seared mark upon his forearm.

“What the devil’s he burning his arm for?” thought the squire. Doctor Syn then began to whistle under his breath; to whistle that old tune the words of which the squire knew so well:

“Here’s to the feet wot have walked the plank.”

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The squire remembered certain words of the captain: Clegg’s one tattoo—the picture of a man walking the plank, executed badly upon his forearm. “Good God! Was it possible? No! Ridiculous!”

An uncanny feeling came over the squire, and he went downstairs quietly, without knocking at the Doctor’s door, as he had intended—went downstairs to the fire in the library, relit his pipe, and began to think about Doctor Syn.

So when Sunday morning broke, two more strange things had happened: Morgan Walters, for one thing, had disappeared, parson’s clothes and all, and Doctor Syn, on going to the vicarage, discovered a new ugly gash in the plaster of the wall, and he felt indeed thankful that he had passed the night at the Court House.

The villagers had it announced to them at the morning service that, in order to undertake a great spiritual mission to the blacks, Doctor Syn was leaving Dymchurch that very night; leaving after evensong by fishing lugger which was

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timed to pick up a certain Spanish trader bound for Jamaica and sailing upon the next day from the port of Rye. So all that Sunday afternoon the villagers, with much sorrow in their hearts at the thought of losing their faithful shepherd and good friend, prepared great beacons along the coast sea-wall as far as Littlestone, in order to light and cheer their vicar on his lonely way at night.

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Chapter 33

Adventures in Watchbell Street

Imogene had got to Rye, and got there through the devil of a bad sea. It was Sunday morning, and by the time that the church bells were ringing for matins she had safely beached her boat with the help of two fishermen who knew her well. With these two old salts she breakfasted. A rude meal it was, served in a hut upon the shingle. Fish, bread, and hot broth were things that she liked, and she did credit to the fare, for she was hungry. She was also sorely in need of sleep, and the old fellows tried to persuade her to take a nap, but she would not hear of it, for time pressed and she had much to do.

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Before leaving Dymchurch, Mrs. Waggetts had provided her with a case of pistols and a sealed packet of papers. This packet she now examined. It contained two papers. It was fortunate, indeed, that Doctor Syn had in his charity taught her to read. One of the papers was a letter of instructions telling her the easiest way of setting about the rescue of the squire’s son, and she knew the advice to be sound, for the signature bore the great name of the Scarecrow. What’s in a name, eh? More than Mr. Shakespeare gave credit for, because as the name of Robespierre had carried terror and power in France, and as the name of Napoleon was changed to Boney for the frightening of children by tyrannical nurses in England, so the title of the Scarecrow bore the like qualities on Romney Marsh, for it meant that the power of the smugglers was behind it, and would be used to force obedience to the Scarecrow’s behests. Imogene knew, therefore, that her papers were of power, credentials that would get her a hearing, and the rest must be left to her own initiative, her wits, and

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her courage, and to chance. Yes, if she carried out these orders to the letter she was pretty confident that all would be well. She read the letter of instructions till she had thoroughly mastered its contents, and then burned it on the bucket of live coals outside the hut. The other letter she kept, for she had great need of that. It was addressed to one Antony Whyllie, attorney-at-law, Watchbell Street, Rye, Sussex, and read: that. It was addressed to one Antony Whyllie, attorney-at-law, Watchbell Street, Rye, Sussex, and read:

We find that we have further need of your help. The son of our squire is in the hands of the Rye press gang. We have accordingly dispatched to you one of our messengers, a young girl upon whom no suspicions will fall. You must see to it that you and the girl succeed in rescuing the young man. If the girl returns without him, all we have to say to you is that it will be the worse for you both; it will also be the last of you both. We would have done well perhaps to send you more help in this difficult venture, but this we cannot do, the girl being the only one of our servants available. However, you will find in her a young woman of great resource, and of high courage, and those qualities, added to your well-known ability and cunning in getting

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out of difficult corners, should enable you to carry out our wishes for our own convenience and for the saving of your life, which we presume affords you some interest.

[Signed] SCARECROW.

With this useful letter tucked away in her blouse in company with one of Mrs. Waggetts’ pistols, Imogene, after bidding farewell to the two fishermen, struck out from the beach across the mile or so of flat country that lies in front of the little rising town of Rye. It is a fortified town, an ancient stronghold against whose walls the sea at one time used to beat but has long since receded. Her heart beat as she looked up at the great battlements and the quaint little houses that clustered in all shapes and sizes around them, higher and higher, until they reached the church tower, the highest point of all.

She did not enter the town by the north gate, but skirted the wall and ascended the long irregular stepway that rises from the river wharf—a long

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ladder of stone that climbs the surface of rock zigzag till you find yourself at the top of the wall and standing upon the cobbled roadway of Watchbell Street—a thoroughfare made green with moss and with rank grass and rendered vastly attractive by the picturesque houses that flank its little pavements. To one of these little houses Imogene made her way, a little white house with a quaint little white front door. She pulled the brass chain, and in response to the bell a serving-maid announced that Mr. Whyllie was not then at home, having gone to church with his wife. So perforce she had to wait until the master and mistress returned from the morning service. A quaint old lady was the wife of the starchy old lawyer. She was dressed in highly flowered brocades, with a curious bonnet, under which her round little face shone out with much animation. A clever little face it was, with a queer little pursed-up mouth, and a tiny little nose with an upward tilt, and her eyes were lively. It was the face of a clever

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eccentric. Imogene saw them coming and gave them a profound courtesy as they drew near to their front door.

“Lord love you, Mister Whyllie,” the old lady exclaimed, “and what’s the pretty wench bobbing at us for?”

“It may be that she would speak to you, my dear,” replied the lawyer to his wife.

“Then why doesn’t she, sir?” answered the little lady, raising her glasses and quizzing Imogene from head to foot. “A handsome face she has, Mister Whyllie, a handsome face indeed, refined yet rough, but then again rough yet refined, take it how you will, but Lord love you again, Mister Whyllie, she has positively the most obnoxious clothes you could wish for us to meet, and no shoes, neither has she stocking, sir, but shapely legs, sir, good legs indeed, though you need not embarrass the child by quizzing them, Mister Whyllie.”

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Mr. Whyllie looked away awkwardly and, raising his hat, inquired whether Imogene wished to speak to them.

“I have come to speak to you, sir, on most grave business.”

“To do with one of my cases, I suppose,” he answered, by way of explanation, to his wife, for he had no wish that she should suspect him of having any dealings with such a handsome wench.

“Which case?” snapped the suspicious little wife.

“Well, really, now, I cannot say off hand,” faltered the lawyer. “Probably the Appledore land claims, but I wouldn’t swear to it, for it could quite equally be something to do with the Canver squabble. In fact, more likely to be, quite likely to be. Probably is, probably is. It might so very well be that, mightn’t it, my love?”

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“Yes, and it might not be that,” returned his wife with scorn. “Why don’t you ask the girl if you want to know, instead of standing there like the town idiot? Being a lawyer, I naturally suppose you to have a tongue in your head.”

“I have, my dear,” exclaimed the lawyer desperately, “but dang it, ma’am, you will not let me wag it.”

“You blasphemous horror!” screamed the lady, sweeping past him into the house, for the serving-maid was holding the front door open for them.

It was, by the way, a good thing for Antony Whyllie that his house was situated in a quiet corner of Watchbell Street, a very good thing, for these sudden squalls would repeatedly burst from his wife, regardless altogether of publicity.

With a sigh the attorney begged Imogene to follow him, and led the way into a little breakfast-room whose latticed windows looked out upon the street. It was a panelled room, but the panels were enamelled with white paint, which

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gave to the place a most cheerful aspect. Upon each panel hung a mahogany framed silhouette portrait of some worthy relative and over each panel was hung a brass spoon or brazen chestnut roaster, each one polished like gold and affording a bright contrast to the black portraits below, which stood out so very severely against the white panelling. There was in one corner of the room an embrasure filled with shelves, the shelves in their turn being filled with china. A round mahogany table, mahogany chairs, and a heraldic mantelpiece made up the rest of the furniture of this altogether delightful little room into which Imogene followed the lawyer, who placed a chair for her and shut the door. He then sat down by the fire and awaited her pleasure to address him. Imogene handed him the paper which had been prepared for her, and as he began to read she drew the silver pistol from her blouse and held it ready beneath a fold of her dress. That the lawyer was greatly startled was only too plain, for as he read the letter he turned a terribly pallid colour in the face.

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“God bless me! but it’s monstrous,” he said, starting up, with his eyes still on the paper. “Not content with holding up my coach, commandeering my horses, and making me look extremely ridiculous, they now force me, a lawyer, an honest lawyer, to break those very laws that I have sworn to defend. It’s monstrous! Utterly monstrous! What am I to do? What can I do? My wife must know of this! My wife must read this letter,” and accordingly he took a step toward the door. But Imogene was too quick for him. With her back against it and the pistol levelled at his head, the lawyer was entirely nonplussed.

“If you please, sir,” she said, “I had orders that you were not to leave the room, indeed that you were not to leave my sight, until I was quite satisfied that you would carry out the Scarecrow’s orders.”

“No, really?” exclaimed the lawyer.

“Yes, indeed, sir,” replied the girl, and then added in a frightened voice: “if you disobey the Scarecrow, it is just as well that I should shoot you here, for all

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the chance you will have to get away from the penalty, and for myself—well, the consequences would be as fatal to me in either case, so you see if you do not help me by obeying the letter you will not only be killing yourself but me, too.” the consequences would be as fatal to me in either case, so you see if you do not help me by obeying the letter you will not only be killing yourself but me, too.”

The lawyer looked blankly at Imogene, and then, retreating from the close and unpleasant proximity of the pistol, sank into his armchair.

“Put it down, girl! Put that pistol down for heaven’s sake, for how can I think whilst I am being made a target of?”

Imogene lowered the weapon.

“I really don’t know what to say,” went on the wretched old man. “I am entirely fogged out of all vision. Muddled, muddled—entirely muddled. I wish you would let my wife come in. Oh, how I do wish you would! Whatever her faults may be, she is really most excellent at thinking out difficulties of this kind. In fact, I must confess that she does all my thinking work for me. Women sometimes, you know, have most excellent brains—quick brains. They have,

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you know. Really, they have. Quick tongues, too. My wife has. Oh, yes, really, you know, she’s got both, and the tongue part of her is developed to a most astonishing degree. But give her her due. Give her her due. So’s her brain. So’s her brain. A most clever brain—most clever. Very quick; exceptionally alert. As clever as a man, really she is. In fact, she’s absolutely cleverer than most. She’s cleverer than me. Oh, yes, she is. I confess it. I’m not conceited. Why, she does all my work for me—so there you are. It proves it, don’t it? Writes all my speeches for me. Really, you know, I am utterly useless without her. She guides me—absolutely guides me, she does. Why, alone I’m hopeless. How on earth do you suppose that I can get a young man out of the hands of the Rye press gang? They’re the most desperate of ruffians. The most desperate set of good-for-noughts that you could possibly wish to meet.”

The handle of the door turned suddenly, but Imogene’s foot was not easily shifted.

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“There’s something in the way of the door, you clumsy clodhopper!” called the voice of Mrs. Whyllie from outside.

“I know there is, my love,” faltered the husband, and then to Imogene he said: “Oh, please let her come in. She will be quiet, I’m sure.” Then in a louder tone: “You will be quiet, won’t you, my love?”

“Antony,” called the voice of the spouse, “are you addressing yourself to that handsome girl? Are you calling her your love?” Then in a tone of doom: “Wait till I get in!”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear, she’s misunderstanding me again. Don’t let her come in now, for heaven’s sake!” But Imogene had already opened the door and in had burst the little lady, and without heeding Imogene she rushed across the room and administered with her mittened hand a very resounding and sound box upon her husband’s ear.

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“Now perhaps you will behave yourself like a respectable married man, like an old fogey that you are, like everything in fact that you ought to be, but aren’t and never will be! Will you behave yourself now, you truly terrible old man?”

“Certainly, my love,” meekly replied the lawyer, “but do look at this young lady.”

“Sakes alive!” she exclaimed when she did look at Imogene, “for if she hasn’t got a pistol in her hand, you’re no fool, Antony!”

“She has got a pistol in her hand, my love, and I’ll not only be a fool, but a dead fool, if you don’t find some way out of the difficulty.”

“And what is the difficulty, pray?” she asked, looking from her terrified husband to the extraordinary girl. “Oh, keep that pistol down, will you, my dear? for there is no immediate danger of my eating you. Just because I keep this fool of a husband of mine in his place, you mustn’t think me an utter virago.”

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“I am afraid it is me that you will be thinking a virago,” answered the girl, still feigning fear in her voice, “but indeed I cannot help myself. This unpleasant situation has been forced upon me.”

But the old lady cut in again with: “I beseech you both to cease making melodramatic idiots of yourselves and tell me calmly and clearly what all this to-do is about. Now, Antony, speak up and tell me all about it. Come along, sir, make haste and tell me if you have any ideas left in that silly head of yours. No doubt you’ve been getting yourself into another pretty mess. Isn’t it enough for you that you go out, sir, a-driving and get robbed of your coach and cattle? I should really have thought that had been quite enough to keep you out of mischief for a day or two. But no! Here you are in trouble again. No doubt you have quite forgotten the little dinner lecture I read to you upon that occasion?”

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“No, my dear, I cannot forget it, I assure you. It is still very vivid to me, I promise you.” For indeed the little old man was still very conscious of a strange feeling of slippers whenever he chanced to sit down.

“Oh, yes, you have forgotten it,” went on the irrepressible lady. “You must have done so. Now tell me what on earth have you been doing to make this handsome girl behave in such a ridiculous fashion?”

With one hand still rubbing his boxed ear and with the other holding out to his wife the terrible letter, the lawyer explained as coherently as possible the whole situation. He told the facts in a timid voice, for he was greatly troubled as to how his wife would take it, but her manner was the most shocking surprise to him, it was so entirely different from anything he might have expected, for when she heard about the press gang, she clapped her little mittens together, and, laughing aloud, urged her husband to go on with the tale which she found the most refreshing she had heard for a month of Sundays, and