"THE WRONG BOX\n\nBy Robert Louis Stevenson And Lloyd Osbourne\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n'Nothing like a little judicious levity,' says Michael Finsbury in the\ntext: nor can any better excuse be found for the volume in the reader's\nhand. The authors can but add that one of them is old enough to be\nashamed of himself, and the other young enough to learn better.\n\nR. L. S. L. O.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. In Which Morris Suspects\n\nHow very little does the amateur, dwelling at home at ease, comprehend\nthe labours and perils of the author, and, when he smilingly skims the\nsurface of a work of fiction, how little does he consider the hours\nof toil, consultation of authorities, researches in the Bodleian,\ncorrespondence with learned and illegible Germans--in one word, the vast\nscaffolding that was first built up and then knocked down, to while away\nan hour for him in a railway train! Thus I might begin this tale with\na biography of Tonti--birthplace, parentage, genius probably inherited\nfrom his mother, remarkable instance of precocity, etc--and a complete\ntreatise on the system to which he bequeathed his name. The material\nis all beside me in a pigeon-hole, but I scorn to appear vainglorious.\nTonti is dead, and I never saw anyone who even pretended to regret him;\nand, as for the tontine system, a word will suffice for all the purposes\nof this unvarnished narrative.\n\nA number of sprightly youths (the more the merrier) put up a certain sum\nof money, which is then funded in a pool under trustees; coming on for\na century later, the proceeds are fluttered for a moment in the face of\nthe last survivor, who is probably deaf, so that he cannot even hear of\nhis success--and who is certainly dying, so that he might just as well\nhave lost. The peculiar poetry and even humour of the scheme is now\napparent, since it is one by which nobody concerned can possibly profit;\nbut its fine, sportsmanlike character endeared it to our grandparents.\n\nWhen Joseph Finsbury and his brother Masterman were little lads\nin white-frilled trousers, their father--a well-to-do merchant\nin Cheapside--caused them to join a small but rich tontine of\nseven-and-thirty lives. A thousand pounds was the entrance fee; and\nJoseph Finsbury can remember to this day the visit to the lawyer's,\nwhere the members of the tontine--all children like himself--were\nassembled together, and sat in turn in the big office chair, and signed\ntheir names with the assistance of a kind old gentleman in spectacles\nand Wellington boots. He remembers playing with the children afterwards\non the lawn at the back of the lawyer's house, and a battle-royal that\nhe had with a brother tontiner who had kicked his shins. The sound of\nwar called forth the lawyer from where he was dispensing cake and\nwine to the assembled parents in the office, and the combatants were\nseparated, and Joseph's spirit (for he was the smaller of the two)\ncommended by the gentleman in the Wellington boots, who vowed he had\nbeen just such another at the same age. Joseph wondered to himself if\nhe had worn at that time little Wellingtons and a little bald head,\nand when, in bed at night, he grew tired of telling himself stories\nof sea-fights, he used to dress himself up as the old gentleman, and\nentertain other little boys and girls with cake and wine.\n\nIn the year 1840 the thirty-seven were all alive; in 1850 their number\nhad decreased by six; in 1856 and 1857 business was more lively, for the\nCrimea and the Mutiny carried off no less than nine. There remained\nin 1870 but five of the original members, and at the date of my story,\nincluding the two Finsburys, but three.\n\nBy this time Masterman was in his seventy-third year; he had long\ncomplained of the effects of age, had long since retired from business,\nand now lived in absolute seclusion under the roof of his son Michael,\nthe well-known solicitor. Joseph, on the other hand, was still up and\nabout, and still presented but a semi-venerable figure on the streets\nin which he loved to wander. This was the more to be deplored because\nMasterman had led (even to the least particular) a model British life.\nIndustry, regularity, respectability, and a preference for the four per\ncents are understood to be the very foundations of a green old age. All\nthese Masterman had eminently displayed, and here he was, ab agendo, at\nseventy-three; while Joseph, barely two years younger, and in the most\nexcellent preservation, had disgraced himself through life by idleness\nand eccentricity. Embarked in the leather trade, he had early wearied\nof business, for which he was supposed to have small parts. A taste for\ngeneral information, not promptly checked, had soon begun to sap his\nmanhood. There is no passion more debilitating to the mind, unless,\nperhaps, it be that itch of public speaking which it not infrequently\naccompanies or begets. The two were conjoined in the case of Joseph; the\nacute stage of this double malady, that in which the patient delivers\ngratuitous lectures, soon declared itself with severity, and not many\nyears had passed over his head before he would have travelled thirty\nmiles to address an infant school. He was no student; his reading was\nconfined to elementary textbooks and the daily papers; he did not even\nfly as high as cyclopedias; life, he would say, was his volume. His\nlectures were not meant, he would declare, for college professors; they\nwere addressed direct to 'the great heart of the people', and the\nheart of the people must certainly be sounder than its head, for his\nlucubrations were received with favour. That entitled 'How to Live\nCheerfully on Forty Pounds a Year', created a sensation among the\nunemployed. 'Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and Desirability',\ngained him the respect of the shallow-minded. As for his celebrated\nessay on 'Life Insurance Regarded in its Relation to the Masses', read\nbefore the Working Men's Mutual Improvement Society, Isle of Dogs, it\nwas received with a 'literal ovation' by an unintelligent audience of\nboth sexes, and so marked was the effect that he was next year elected\nhonorary president of the institution, an office of less than\nno emolument--since the holder was expected to come down with a\ndonation--but one which highly satisfied his self-esteem.\n\nWhile Joseph was thus building himself up a reputation among the more\ncultivated portion of the ignorant, his domestic life was suddenly\noverwhelmed by orphans. The death of his younger brother Jacob saddled\nhim with the charge of two boys, Morris and John; and in the course of\nthe same year his family was still further swelled by the addition of a\nlittle girl, the daughter of John Henry Hazeltine, Esq., a gentleman\nof small property and fewer friends. He had met Joseph only once, at a\nlecture-hall in Holloway; but from that formative experience he returned\nhome to make a new will, and consign his daughter and her fortune to the\nlecturer. Joseph had a kindly disposition; and yet it was not without\nreluctance that he accepted this new responsibility, advertised for a\nnurse, and purchased a second-hand perambulator. Morris and John he made\nmore readily welcome; not so much because of the tie of consanguinity\nas because the leather business (in which he hastened to invest their\nfortune of thirty thousand pounds) had recently exhibited inexplicable\nsymptoms of decline. A young but capable Scot was chosen as manager to\nthe enterprise, and the cares of business never again afflicted Joseph\nFinsbury. Leaving his charges in the hands of the capable Scot (who was\nmarried), he began his extensive travels on the Continent and in Asia\nMinor.\n\nWith a polyglot Testament in one hand and a phrase-book in the other,\nhe groped his way among the speakers of eleven European languages.\nThe first of these guides is hardly applicable to the purposes of the\nphilosophic traveller, and even the second is designed more expressly\nfor the tourist than for the expert in life. But he pressed interpreters\ninto his service--whenever he could get their services for nothing--and\nby one means and another filled many notebooks with the results of his\nresearches.\n\nIn these wanderings he spent several years, and only returned to England\nwhen the increasing age of his charges needed his attention. The two\nlads had been placed in a good but economical school, where they had\nreceived a sound commercial education; which was somewhat awkward, as\nthe leather business was by no means in a state to court enquiry. In\nfact, when Joseph went over his accounts preparatory to surrendering his\ntrust, he was dismayed to discover that his brother's fortune had not\nincreased by his stewardship; even by making over to his two wards\nevery penny he had in the world, there would still be a deficit of seven\nthousand eight hundred pounds. When these facts were communicated to the\ntwo brothers in the presence of a lawyer, Morris Finsbury threatened\nhis uncle with all the terrors of the law, and was only prevented from\ntaking extreme steps by the advice of the professional man. 'You cannot\nget blood from a stone,' observed the lawyer.\n\nAnd Morris saw the point and came to terms with his uncle. On the one\nside, Joseph gave up all that he possessed, and assigned to his\nnephew his contingent interest in the tontine, already quite a hopeful\nspeculation. On the other, Morris agreed to harbour his uncle and Miss\nHazeltine (who had come to grief with the rest), and to pay to each\nof them one pound a month as pocket-money. The allowance was amply\nsufficient for the old man; it scarce appears how Miss Hazeltine\ncontrived to dress upon it; but she did, and, what is more, she never\ncomplained. She was, indeed, sincerely attached to her incompetent\nguardian. He had never been unkind; his age spoke for him loudly; there\nwas something appealing in his whole-souled quest of knowledge and\ninnocent delight in the smallest mark of admiration; and, though the\nlawyer had warned her she was being sacrificed, Julia had refused to add\nto the perplexities of Uncle Joseph.\n\nIn a large, dreary house in John Street, Bloomsbury, these four dwelt\ntogether; a family in appearance, in reality a financial association.\nJulia and Uncle Joseph were, of course, slaves; John, a gentle man with\na taste for the banjo, the music-hall, the Gaiety bar, and the sporting\npapers, must have been anywhere a secondary figure; and the cares\nand delights of empire devolved entirely upon Morris. That these are\ninextricably intermixed is one of the commonplaces with which the bland\nessayist consoles the incompetent and the obscure, but in the case of\nMorris the bitter must have largely outweighed the sweet. He grudged no\ntrouble to himself, he spared none to others; he called the servants\nin the morning, he served out the stores with his own hand, he took\nsoundings of the sherry, he numbered the remainder biscuits; painful\nscenes took place over the weekly bills, and the cook was frequently\nimpeached, and the tradespeople came and hectored with him in the back\nparlour upon a question of three farthings. The superficial might have\ndeemed him a miser; in his own eyes he was simply a man who had been\ndefrauded; the world owed him seven thousand eight hundred pounds, and\nhe intended that the world should pay.\n\nBut it was in his dealings with Joseph that Morris's character\nparticularly shone. His uncle was a rather gambling stock in which he\nhad invested heavily; and he spared no pains in nursing the security.\nThe old man was seen monthly by a physician, whether he was well or ill.\nHis diet, his raiment, his occasional outings, now to Brighton, now to\nBournemouth, were doled out to him like pap to infants. In bad weather\nhe must keep the house. In good weather, by half-past nine, he must\nbe ready in the hall; Morris would see that he had gloves and that his\nshoes were sound; and the pair would start for the leather business\narm in arm. The way there was probably dreary enough, for there was no\npretence of friendly feeling; Morris had never ceased to upbraid\nhis guardian with his defalcation and to lament the burthen of Miss\nHazeltine; and Joseph, though he was a mild enough soul, regarded his\nnephew with something very near akin to hatred. But the way there\nwas nothing to the journey back; for the mere sight of the place of\nbusiness, as well as every detail of its transactions, was enough to\npoison life for any Finsbury.\n\nJoseph's name was still over the door; it was he who still signed the\ncheques; but this was only policy on the part of Morris, and designed\nto discourage other members of the tontine. In reality the business was\nentirely his; and he found it an inheritance of sorrows. He tried to\nsell it, and the offers he received were quite derisory. He tried to\nextend it, and it was only the liabilities he succeeded in extending; to\nrestrict it, and it was only the profits he managed to restrict. Nobody\nhad ever made money out of that concern except the capable Scot, who\nretired (after his discharge) to the neighbourhood of Banff and built a\ncastle with his profits. The memory of this fallacious Caledonian Morris\nwould revile daily, as he sat in the private office opening his mail,\nwith old Joseph at another table, sullenly awaiting orders, or savagely\naffixing signatures to he knew not what. And when the man of the heather\npushed cynicism so far as to send him the announcement of his second\nmarriage (to Davida, eldest daughter of the Revd. Alexander McCraw), it\nwas really supposed that Morris would have had a fit.\n\nBusiness hours, in the Finsbury leather trade, had been cut to the\nquick; even Morris's strong sense of duty to himself was not strong\nenough to dally within those walls and under the shadow of that\nbankruptcy; and presently the manager and the clerks would draw a long\nbreath, and compose themselves for another day of procrastination. Raw\nHaste, on the authority of my Lord Tennyson, is half-sister to Delay;\nbut the Business Habits are certainly her uncles. Meanwhile, the leather\nmerchant would lead his living investment back to John Street like a\npuppy dog; and, having there immured him in the hall, would depart for\nthe day on the quest of seal rings, the only passion of his life. Joseph\nhad more than the vanity of man, he had that of lecturers. He owned he\nwas in fault, although more sinned against (by the capable Scot) than\nsinning; but had he steeped his hands in gore, he would still not\ndeserve to be thus dragged at the chariot-wheels of a young man, to sit\na captive in the halls of his own leather business, to be entertained\nwith mortifying comments on his whole career--to have his costume\nexamined, his collar pulled up, the presence of his mittens verified,\nand to be taken out and brought home in custody, like an infant with\na nurse. At the thought of it his soul would swell with venom, and he\nwould make haste to hang up his hat and coat and the detested mittens,\nand slink upstairs to Julia and his notebooks. The drawing-room at least\nwas sacred from Morris; it belonged to the old man and the young girl;\nit was there that she made her dresses; it was there that he inked\nhis spectacles over the registration of disconnected facts and the\ncalculation of insignificant statistics.\n\nHere he would sometimes lament his connection with the tontine. 'If it\nwere not for that,' he cried one afternoon, 'he would not care to keep\nme. I might be a free man, Julia. And I could so easily support myself\nby giving lectures.'\n\n'To be sure you could,' said she; 'and I think it one of the meanest\nthings he ever did to deprive you of that amusement. There were those\nnice people at the Isle of Cats (wasn't it?) who wrote and asked you so\nvery kindly to give them an address. I did think he might have let you\ngo to the Isle of Cats.'\n\n'He is a man of no intelligence,' cried Joseph. 'He lives here literally\nsurrounded by the absorbing spectacle of life, and for all the good\nit does him, he might just as well be in his coffin. Think of his\nopportunities! The heart of any other young man would burn within him\nat the chance. The amount of information that I have it in my power\nto convey, if he would only listen, is a thing that beggars language,\nJulia.'\n\n'Whatever you do, my dear, you mustn't excite yourself,' said Julia;\n'for you know, if you look at all ill, the doctor will be sent for.'\n\n'That is very true,' returned the old man humbly, 'I will compose myself\nwith a little study.' He thumbed his gallery of notebooks. 'I wonder,'\nhe said, 'I wonder (since I see your hands are occupied) whether it\nmight not interest you--'\n\n'Why, of course it would,' cried Julia. 'Read me one of your nice\nstories, there's a dear.'\n\nHe had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose instanter, as\nthough to forestall some possible retractation. 'What I propose to read\nto you,' said he, skimming through the pages, 'is the notes of a highly\nimportant conversation with a Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas,\nwhich is the Latin for abbot. Its results are well worth the money\nit cost me, for, as Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was\ninduced to (what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It\nruns only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is.' He cleared\nhis throat, and began to read.\n\nMr Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four hundred\nand ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and elicited from\nAbbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who did not require to\nlisten; for the Dutch courier, who had to answer, it must have been\na perfect nightmare. It would seem as if he had consoled himself by\nfrequent appliances to the bottle; it would even seem that (toward the\nend) he had ceased to depend on Joseph's frugal generosity and called\nfor the flagon on his own account. The effect, at least, of some\nmellowing influence was visible in the record: Abbas became suddenly a\nwilling witness; he began to volunteer disclosures; and Julia had just\nlooked up from her seam with something like a smile, when Morris burst\ninto the house, eagerly calling for his uncle, and the next instant\nplunged into the room, waving in the air the evening paper.\n\nIt was indeed with great news that he came charged. The demise was\nannounced of Lieutenant-General Sir Glasgow Biggar, KCSI, KCMG, etc.,\nand the prize of the tontine now lay between the Finsbury brothers. Here\nwas Morris's opportunity at last. The brothers had never, it is true,\nbeen cordial. When word came that Joseph was in Asia Minor, Masterman\nhad expressed himself with irritation. 'I call it simply indecent,' he\nhad said. 'Mark my words--we shall hear of him next at the North Pole.'\nAnd these bitter expressions had been reported to the traveller on his\nreturn. What was worse, Masterman had refused to attend the lecture on\n'Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and Desirability', although\ninvited to the platform. Since then the brothers had not met. On the\nother hand, they never had openly quarrelled; Joseph (by Morris's\norders) was prepared to waive the advantage of his juniority; Masterman\nhad enjoyed all through life the reputation of a man neither greedy nor\nunfair. Here, then, were all the elements of compromise assembled;\nand Morris, suddenly beholding his seven thousand eight hundred pounds\nrestored to him, and himself dismissed from the vicissitudes of the\nleather trade, hastened the next morning to the office of his cousin\nMichael.\n\nMichael was something of a public character. Launched upon the law at a\nvery early age, and quite without protectors, he had become a trafficker\nin shady affairs. He was known to be the man for a lost cause; it was\nknown he could extract testimony from a stone, and interest from a\ngold-mine; and his office was besieged in consequence by all that\nnumerous class of persons who have still some reputation to lose, and\nfind themselves upon the point of losing it; by those who have\nmade undesirable acquaintances, who have mislaid a compromising\ncorrespondence, or who are blackmailed by their own butlers. In\nprivate life Michael was a man of pleasure; but it was thought his dire\nexperience at the office had gone far to sober him, and it was known\nthat (in the matter of investments) he preferred the solid to the\nbrilliant. What was yet more to the purpose, he had been all his life a\nconsistent scoffer at the Finsbury tontine.\n\nIt was therefore with little fear for the result that Morris presented\nhimself before his cousin, and proceeded feverishly to set forth his\nscheme. For near upon a quarter of an hour the lawyer suffered him to\ndwell upon its manifest advantages uninterrupted. Then Michael rose from\nhis seat, and, ringing for his clerk, uttered a single clause: 'It won't\ndo, Morris.'\n\nIt was in vain that the leather merchant pleaded and reasoned, and\nreturned day after day to plead and reason. It was in vain that he\noffered a bonus of one thousand, of two thousand, of three thousand\npounds; in vain that he offered, in Joseph's name, to be content with\nonly one-third of the pool. Still there came the same answer: 'It won't\ndo.'\n\n'I can't see the bottom of this,' he said at last. 'You answer none of\nmy arguments; you haven't a word to say. For my part, I believe it's\nmalice.'\n\nThe lawyer smiled at him benignly. 'You may believe one thing,' said he.\n'Whatever else I do, I am not going to gratify any of your curiosity.\nYou see I am a trifle more communicative today, because this is our last\ninterview upon the subject.'\n\n'Our last interview!' cried Morris.\n\n'The stirrup-cup, dear boy,' returned Michael. 'I can't have my business\nhours encroached upon. And, by the by, have you no business of your own?\nAre there no convulsions in the leather trade?'\n\n'I believe it to be malice,' repeated Morris doggedly. 'You always hated\nand despised me from a boy.'\n\n'No, no--not hated,' returned Michael soothingly. 'I rather like you\nthan otherwise; there's such a permanent surprise about you, you look so\ndark and attractive from a distance. Do you know that to the naked\neye you look romantic?--like what they call a man with a history? And\nindeed, from all that I can hear, the history of the leather trade is\nfull of incident.'\n\n'Yes,' said Morris, disregarding these remarks, 'it's no use coming\nhere. I shall see your father.'\n\n'O no, you won't,' said Michael. 'Nobody shall see my father.'\n\n'I should like to know why,' cried his cousin.\n\n'I never make any secret of that,' replied the lawyer. 'He is too ill.'\n\n'If he is as ill as you say,' cried the other, 'the more reason for\naccepting my proposal. I will see him.'\n\n'Will you?' said Michael, and he rose and rang for his clerk.\n\nIt was now time, according to Sir Faraday Bond, the medical baronet\nwhose name is so familiar at the foot of bulletins, that Joseph (the\npoor Golden Goose) should be removed into the purer air of Bournemouth;\nand for that uncharted wilderness of villas the family now shook off\nthe dust of Bloomsbury; Julia delighted, because at Bournemouth she\nsometimes made acquaintances; John in despair, for he was a man of city\ntastes; Joseph indifferent where he was, so long as there was pen and\nink and daily papers, and he could avoid martyrdom at the office; Morris\nhimself, perhaps, not displeased to pretermit these visits to the city,\nand have a quiet time for thought. He was prepared for any sacrifice;\nall he desired was to get his money again and clear his feet of leather;\nand it would be strange, since he was so modest in his desires, and the\npool amounted to upward of a hundred and sixteen thousand pounds--it\nwould be strange indeed if he could find no way of influencing Michael.\n'If I could only guess his reason,' he repeated to himself; and by day,\nas he walked in Branksome Woods, and by night, as he turned upon his\nbed, and at meal-times, when he forgot to eat, and in the bathing\nmachine, when he forgot to dress himself, that problem was constantly\nbefore him: Why had Michael refused?\n\nAt last, one night, he burst into his brother's room and woke him.\n\n'What's all this?' asked John.\n\n'Julia leaves this place tomorrow,' replied Morris. 'She must go up to\ntown and get the house ready, and find servants. We shall all follow in\nthree days.'\n\n'Oh, brayvo!' cried John. 'But why?'\n\n'I've found it out, John,' returned his brother gently.\n\n'It? What?' enquired John.\n\n'Why Michael won't compromise,' said Morris. 'It's because he can't.\nIt's because Masterman's dead, and he's keeping it dark.'\n\n'Golly!' cried the impressionable John. 'But what's the use? Why does he\ndo it, anyway?'\n\n'To defraud us of the tontine,' said his brother.\n\n'He couldn't; you have to have a doctor's certificate,' objected John.\n\n'Did you never hear of venal doctors?' enquired Morris. 'They're as\ncommon as blackberries: you can pick 'em up for three-pound-ten a head.'\n\n'I wouldn't do it under fifty if I were a sawbones,' ejaculated John.\n\n'And then Michael,' continued Morris, 'is in the very thick of it. All\nhis clients have come to grief; his whole business is rotten eggs. If\nany man could arrange it, he could; and depend upon it, he has his plan\nall straight; and depend upon it, it's a good one, for he's clever, and\nbe damned to him! But I'm clever too; and I'm desperate. I lost seven\nthousand eight hundred pounds when I was an orphan at school.'\n\n'O, don't be tedious,' interrupted John. 'You've lost far more already\ntrying to get it back.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. In Which Morris takes Action\n\nSome days later, accordingly, the three males of this depressing family\nmight have been observed (by a reader of G. P. R. James) taking their\ndeparture from the East Station of Bournemouth. The weather was raw\nand changeable, and Joseph was arrayed in consequence according to the\nprinciples of Sir Faraday Bond, a man no less strict (as is well known)\non costume than on diet. There are few polite invalids who have not\nlived, or tried to live, by that punctilious physician's orders. 'Avoid\ntea, madam,' the reader has doubtless heard him say, 'avoid tea, fried\nliver, antimonial wine, and bakers' bread. Retire nightly at 10.45;\nand clothe yourself (if you please) throughout in hygienic flannel.\nExternally, the fur of the marten is indicated. Do not forget to\nprocure a pair of health boots at Messrs Dail and Crumbie's.' And he has\nprobably called you back, even after you have paid your fee, to add\nwith stentorian emphasis: 'I had forgotten one caution: avoid kippered\nsturgeon as you would the very devil.' The unfortunate Joseph was cut to\nthe pattern of Sir Faraday in every button; he was shod with the health\nboot; his suit was of genuine ventilating cloth; his shirt of hygienic\nflannel, a somewhat dingy fabric; and he was draped to the knees in\nthe inevitable greatcoat of marten's fur. The very railway porters at\nBournemouth (which was a favourite station of the doctor's) marked the\nold gentleman for a creature of Sir Faraday. There was but one evidence\nof personal taste, a vizarded forage cap; from this form of headpiece,\nsince he had fled from a dying jackal on the plains of Ephesus, and\nweathered a bora in the Adriatic, nothing could divorce our traveller.\n\nThe three Finsburys mounted into their compartment, and fell immediately\nto quarrelling, a step unseemly in itself and (in this case) highly\nunfortunate for Morris. Had he lingered a moment longer by the window,\nthis tale need never have been written. For he might then have observed\n(as the porters did not fail to do) the arrival of a second passenger in\nthe uniform of Sir Faraday Bond. But he had other matters on hand, which\nhe judged (God knows how erroneously) to be more important.\n\n'I never heard of such a thing,' he cried, resuming a discussion which\nhad scarcely ceased all morning. 'The bill is not yours; it is mine.'\n\n'It is payable to me,' returned the old gentleman, with an air of bitter\nobstinacy. 'I will do what I please with my own property.'\n\nThe bill was one for eight hundred pounds, which had been given him at\nbreakfast to endorse, and which he had simply pocketed.\n\n'Hear him, Johnny!' cried Morris. 'His property! the very clothes upon\nhis back belong to me.'\n\n'Let him alone,' said John. 'I am sick of both of you.'\n\n'That is no way to speak of your uncle, sir,' cried Joseph. 'I will not\nendure this disrespect. You are a pair of exceedingly forward, impudent,\nand ignorant young men, and I have quite made up my mind to put an end\nto the whole business.'.\n\n'O skittles!' said the graceful John.\n\nBut Morris was not so easy in his mind. This unusual act of\ninsubordination had already troubled him; and these mutinous words now\nsounded ominously in his ears. He looked at the old gentleman uneasily.\nUpon one occasion, many years before, when Joseph was delivering a\nlecture, the audience had revolted in a body; finding their entertainer\nsomewhat dry, they had taken the question of amusement into their own\nhands; and the lecturer (along with the board schoolmaster, the Baptist\nclergyman, and a working-man's candidate, who made up his bodyguard) was\nultimately driven from the scene. Morris had not been present on that\nfatal day; if he had, he would have recognized a certain fighting\nglitter in his uncle's eye, and a certain chewing movement of his lips,\nas old acquaintances. But even to the inexpert these symptoms breathed\nof something dangerous.\n\n'Well, well,' said Morris. 'I have no wish to bother you further till we\nget to London.'\n\nJoseph did not so much as look at him in answer; with tremulous hands\nhe produced a copy of the British Mechanic, and ostentatiously buried\nhimself in its perusal.\n\n'I wonder what can make him so cantankerous?' reflected the nephew. 'I\ndon't like the look of it at all.' And he dubiously scratched his nose.\n\nThe train travelled forth into the world, bearing along with it the\ncustomary freight of obliterated voyagers, and along with these old\nJoseph, affecting immersion in his paper, and John slumbering over\nthe columns of the Pink Un, and Morris revolving in his mind a dozen\ngrudges, and suspicions, and alarms. It passed Christchurch by the sea,\nHerne with its pinewoods, Ringwood on its mazy river. A little behind\ntime, but not much for the South-Western, it drew up at the platform of\na station, in the midst of the New Forest, the real name of which (in\ncase the railway company 'might have the law of me') I shall veil under\nthe alias of Browndean.\n\nMany passengers put their heads to the window, and among the rest an old\ngentleman on whom I willingly dwell, for I am nearly done with him now,\nand (in the whole course of the present narrative) I am not in the least\nlikely to meet another character so decent. His name is immaterial, not\nso his habits. He had passed his life wandering in a tweed suit on the\ncontinent of Europe; and years of Galignani's Messenger having at length\nundermined his eyesight, he suddenly remembered the rivers of Assyria\nand came to London to consult an oculist. From the oculist to the\ndentist, and from both to the physician, the step appears inevitable;\npresently he was in the hands of Sir Faraday, robed in ventilating cloth\nand sent to Bournemouth; and to that domineering baronet (who was his\nonly friend upon his native soil) he was now returning to report. The\ncase of these tweedsuited wanderers is unique. We have all seen them\nentering the table d'hote (at Spezzia, or Grdtz, or Venice) with a\ngenteel melancholy and a faint appearance of having been to India and\nnot succeeded. In the offices of many hundred hotels they are known by\nname; and yet, if the whole of this wandering cohort were to disappear\ntomorrow, their absence would be wholly unremarked. How much more, if\nonly one--say this one in the ventilating cloth--should vanish! He had\npaid his bills at Bournemouth; his worldly effects were all in the van\nin two portmanteaux, and these after the proper interval would be\nsold as unclaimed baggage to a Jew; Sir Faraday's butler would be a\nhalf-crown poorer at the year's end, and the hotelkeepers of Europe\nabout the same date would be mourning a small but quite observable\ndecline in profits. And that would be literally all. Perhaps the old\ngentleman thought something of the sort, for he looked melancholy enough\nas he pulled his bare, grey head back into the carriage, and the train\nsmoked under the bridge, and forth, with ever quickening speed, across\nthe mingled heaths and woods of the New Forest.\n\nNot many hundred yards beyond Browndean, however, a sudden jarring of\nbrakes set everybody's teeth on edge, and there was a brutal stoppage.\nMorris Finsbury was aware of a confused uproar of voices, and sprang to\nthe window. Women were screaming, men were tumbling from the windows on\nthe track, the guard was crying to them to stay where they were; at the\nsame time the train began to gather way and move very slowly backward\ntoward Browndean; and the next moment--, all these various sounds were\nblotted out in the apocalyptic whistle and the thundering onslaught of\nthe down express.\n\nThe actual collision Morris did not hear. Perhaps he fainted. He had a\nwild dream of having seen the carriage double up and fall to pieces\nlike a pantomime trick; and sure enough, when he came to himself, he was\nlying on the bare earth and under the open sky. His head ached savagely;\nhe carried his hand to his brow, and was not surprised to see it red\nwith blood. The air was filled with an intolerable, throbbing roar,\nwhich he expected to find die away with the return of consciousness; and\ninstead of that it seemed but to swell the louder and to pierce the more\ncruelly through his ears. It was a raging, bellowing thunder, like a\nboiler-riveting factory.\n\nAnd now curiosity began to stir, and he sat up and looked about him. The\ntrack at this point ran in a sharp curve about a wooded hillock; all\nof the near side was heaped with the wreckage of the Bournemouth train;\nthat of the express was mostly hidden by the trees; and just at the\nturn, under clouds of vomiting steam and piled about with cairns of\nliving coal, lay what remained of the two engines, one upon the other.\nOn the heathy margin of the line were many people running to and fro,\nand crying aloud as they ran, and many others lying motionless like\nsleeping tramps.\n\nMorris suddenly drew an inference. 'There has been an accident' thought\nhe, and was elated at his perspicacity. Almost at the same time his eye\nlighted on John, who lay close by as white as paper. 'Poor old John!\npoor old cove!' he thought, the schoolboy expression popping forth from\nsome forgotten treasury, and he took his brother's hand in his with\nchildish tenderness. It was perhaps the touch that recalled him;\nat least John opened his eyes, sat suddenly up, and after several\nineffectual movements of his lips, 'What's the row?' said he, in a\nphantom voice.\n\nThe din of that devil's smithy still thundered in their ears. 'Let us\nget away from that,' Morris cried, and pointed to the vomit of steam\nthat still spouted from the broken engines. And the pair helped each\nother up, and stood and quaked and wavered and stared about them at the\nscene of death.\n\nJust then they were approached by a party of men who had already\norganized themselves for the purposes of rescue.\n\n'Are you hurt?' cried one of these, a young fellow with the sweat\nstreaming down his pallid face, and who, by the way he was treated, was\nevidently the doctor.\n\nMorris shook his head, and the young man, nodding grimly, handed him a\nbottle of some spirit.\n\n'Take a drink of that,' he said; 'your friend looks as if he needed it\nbadly. We want every man we can get,' he added; 'there's terrible work\nbefore us, and nobody should shirk. If you can do no more, you can carry\na stretcher.'\n\nThe doctor was hardly gone before Morris, under the spur of the dram,\nawoke to the full possession of his wits.\n\n'My God!' he cried. 'Uncle Joseph!'\n\n'Yes,' said John, 'where can he be? He can't be far off. I hope the old\nparty isn't damaged.'\n\n'Come and help me to look,' said Morris, with a snap of savage\ndetermination strangely foreign to his ordinary bearing; and then, for\none moment, he broke forth. 'If he's dead!' he cried, and shook his fist\nat heaven.\n\nTo and fro the brothers hurried, staring in the faces of the wounded,\nor turning the dead upon their backs. They must have thus examined forty\npeople, and still there was no word of Uncle Joseph. But now the course\nof their search brought them near the centre of the collision, where the\nboilers were still blowing off steam with a deafening clamour. It was\na part of the field not yet gleaned by the rescuing party. The ground,\nespecially on the margin of the wood, was full of inequalities--here\na pit, there a hillock surmounted with a bush of furze. It was a place\nwhere many bodies might lie concealed, and they beat it like pointers\nafter game. Suddenly Morris, who was leading, paused and reached forth\nhis index with a tragic gesture. John followed the direction of his\nbrother's hand.\n\nIn the bottom of a sandy hole lay something that had once been human.\nThe face had suffered severely, and it was unrecognizable; but that was\nnot required. The snowy hair, the coat of marten, the ventilating cloth,\nthe hygienic flannel--everything down to the health boots from Messrs\nDail and Crumbie's, identified the body as that of Uncle Joseph. Only\nthe forage cap must have been lost in the convulsion, for the dead man\nwas bareheaded.\n\n'The poor old beggar!' said John, with a touch of natural feeling; 'I\nwould give ten pounds if we hadn't chivvied him in the train!'\n\nBut there was no sentiment in the face of Morris as he gazed upon the\ndead. Gnawing his nails, with introverted eyes, his brow marked with\nthe stamp of tragic indignation and tragic intellectual effort, he stood\nthere silent. Here was a last injustice; he had been robbed while he was\nan orphan at school, he had been lashed to a decadent leather business,\nhe had been saddled with Miss Hazeltine, his cousin had been defrauding\nhim of the tontine, and he had borne all this, we might almost say, with\ndignity, and now they had gone and killed his uncle!\n\n'Here!' he said suddenly, 'take his heels, we must get him into the\nwoods. I'm not going to have anybody find this.'\n\n'O, fudge!' said John, 'where's the use?'\n\n'Do what I tell you,' spirted Morris, as he took the corpse by the\nshoulders. 'Am I to carry him myself?'\n\nThey were close upon the borders of the wood; in ten or twelve paces\nthey were under cover; and a little further back, in a sandy clearing of\nthe trees, they laid their burthen down, and stood and looked at it with\nloathing.\n\n'What do you mean to do?' whispered John.\n\n'Bury him, to be sure,' responded Morris, and he opened his pocket-knife\nand began feverishly to dig.\n\n'You'll never make a hand of it with that,' objected the other.\n\n'If you won't help me, you cowardly shirk,' screamed Morris, 'you can go\nto the devil!'\n\n'It's the childishest folly,' said John; 'but no man shall call me a\ncoward,' and he began to help his brother grudgingly.\n\nThe soil was sandy and light, but matted with the roots of the\nsurrounding firs. Gorse tore their hands; and as they baled the sand\nfrom the grave, it was often discoloured with their blood. An hour\npassed of unremitting energy upon the part of Morris, of lukewarm help\non that of John; and still the trench was barely nine inches in depth.\nInto this the body was rudely flung: sand was piled upon it, and then\nmore sand must be dug, and gorse had to be cut to pile on that; and\nstill from one end of the sordid mound a pair of feet projected and\ncaught the light upon their patent-leather toes. But by this time the\nnerves of both were shaken; even Morris had enough of his grisly task;\nand they skulked off like animals into the thickest of the neighbouring\ncovert.\n\n'It's the best that we can do,' said Morris, sitting down.\n\n'And now,' said John, 'perhaps you'll have the politeness to tell me\nwhat it's all about.'\n\n'Upon my word,' cried Morris, 'if you do not understand for yourself, I\nalmost despair of telling you.'\n\n'O, of course it's some rot about the tontine,' returned the other. 'But\nit's the merest nonsense. We've lost it, and there's an end.'\n\n'I tell you,' said Morris, 'Uncle Masterman is dead. I know it, there's\na voice that tells me so.'\n\n'Well, and so is Uncle Joseph,' said John.\n\n'He's not dead, unless I choose,' returned Morris.\n\n'And come to that,' cried John, 'if you're right, and Uncle Masterman's\nbeen dead ever so long, all we have to do is to tell the truth and\nexpose Michael.'\n\n'You seem to think Michael is a fool,' sneered Morris. 'Can't you\nunderstand he's been preparing this fraud for years? He has the whole\nthing ready: the nurse, the doctor, the undertaker, all bought, the\ncertificate all ready but the date! Let him get wind of this business,\nand you mark my words, Uncle Masterman will die in two days and be\nburied in a week. But see here, Johnny; what Michael can do, I can do.\nIf he plays a game of bluff, so can I. If his father is to live for\never, by God, so shall my uncle!'\n\n'It's illegal, ain't it?' said John.\n\n'A man must have SOME moral courage,' replied Morris with dignity.\n\n'And then suppose you're wrong? Suppose Uncle Masterman's alive and\nkicking?'\n\n'Well, even then,' responded the plotter, 'we are no worse off than we\nwere before; in fact, we're better. Uncle Masterman must die some day;\nas long as Uncle Joseph was alive, he might have died any day; but we're\nout of all that trouble now: there's no sort of limit to the game that I\npropose--it can be kept up till Kingdom Come.'\n\n'If I could only see how you meant to set about it' sighed John. 'But\nyou know, Morris, you always were such a bungler.'\n\n'I'd like to know what I ever bungled,' cried Morris; 'I have the best\ncollection of signet rings in London.'\n\n'Well, you know, there's the leather business,' suggested the other.\n'That's considered rather a hash.'\n\nIt was a mark of singular self-control in Morris that he suffered this\nto pass unchallenged, and even unresented.\n\n'About the business in hand,' said he, 'once we can get him up to\nBloomsbury, there's no sort of trouble. We bury him in the cellar, which\nseems made for it; and then all I have to do is to start out and find a\nvenal doctor.'\n\n'Why can't we leave him where he is?' asked John.\n\n'Because we know nothing about the country,' retorted Morris. 'This wood\nmay be a regular lovers' walk. Turn your mind to the real difficulty.\nHow are we to get him up to Bloomsbury?'\n\nVarious schemes were mooted and rejected. The railway station at\nBrowndean was, of course, out of the question, for it would now be a\ncentre of curiosity and gossip, and (of all things) they would be\nleast able to dispatch a dead body without remark. John feebly proposed\ngetting an ale-cask and sending it as beer, but the objections to this\ncourse were so overwhelming that Morris scorned to answer. The purchase\nof a packing-case seemed equally hopeless, for why should two gentlemen\nwithout baggage of any kind require a packing-case? They would be more\nlikely to require clean linen.\n\n'We are working on wrong lines,' cried Morris at last. 'The thing must\nbe gone about more carefully. Suppose now,' he added excitedly, speaking\nby fits and starts, as if he were thinking aloud, 'suppose we rent\na cottage by the month. A householder can buy a packing-case without\nremark. Then suppose we clear the people out today, get the packing-case\ntonight, and tomorrow I hire a carriage or a cart that we could\ndrive ourselves--and take the box, or whatever we get, to Ringwood or\nLyndhurst or somewhere; we could label it \"specimens\", don't you see?\nJohnny, I believe I've hit the nail at last.'\n\n'Well, it sounds more feasible,' admitted John.\n\n'Of course we must take assumed names,' continued Morris. 'It would\nnever do to keep our own. What do you say to \"Masterman\" itself? It\nsounds quiet and dignified.'\n\n'I will NOT take the name of Masterman,' returned his brother; 'you may,\nif you like. I shall call myself Vance--the Great Vance; positively the\nlast six nights. There's some go in a name like that.'\n\n'Vance?' cried Morris. 'Do you think we are playing a pantomime for our\namusement? There was never anybody named Vance who wasn't a music-hall\nsinger.'\n\n'That's the beauty of it,' returned John; 'it gives you some standing at\nonce. You may call yourself Fortescue till all's blue, and nobody cares;\nbut to be Vance gives a man a natural nobility.'\n\n'But there's lots of other theatrical names,' cried Morris. 'Leybourne,\nIrving, Brough, Toole--'\n\n'Devil a one will I take!' returned his brother. 'I am going to have my\nlittle lark out of this as well as you.'\n\n'Very well,' said Morris, who perceived that John was determined to\ncarry his point, 'I shall be Robert Vance.'\n\n'And I shall be George Vance,' cried John, 'the only original George\nVance! Rally round the only original!'\n\nRepairing as well as they were able the disorder of their clothes, the\nFinsbury brothers returned to Browndean by a circuitous route in quest\nof luncheon and a suitable cottage. It is not always easy to drop at\na moment's notice on a furnished residence in a retired locality; but\nfortune presently introduced our adventurers to a deaf carpenter, a man\nrich in cottages of the required description, and unaffectedly eager to\nsupply their wants. The second place they visited, standing, as it did,\nabout a mile and a half from any neighbours, caused them to exchange a\nglance of hope. On a nearer view, the place was not without depressing\nfeatures. It stood in a marshy-looking hollow of a heath; tall trees\nobscured its windows; the thatch visibly rotted on the rafters; and the\nwalls were stained with splashes of unwholesome green. The rooms were\nsmall, the ceilings low, the furniture merely nominal; a strange chill\nand a haunting smell of damp pervaded the kitchen; and the bedroom\nboasted only of one bed.\n\nMorris, with a view to cheapening the place, remarked on this defect.\n\n'Well,' returned the man; 'if you can't sleep two abed, you'd better\ntake a villa residence.'\n\n'And then,' pursued Morris, 'there's no water. How do you get your\nwater?'\n\n'We fill THAT from the spring,' replied the carpenter, pointing to a big\nbarrel that stood beside the door. 'The spring ain't so VERY far off,\nafter all, and it's easy brought in buckets. There's a bucket there.'\n\nMorris nudged his brother as they examined the water-butt. It was\nnew, and very solidly constructed for its office. If anything had been\nwanting to decide them, this eminently practical barrel would have\nturned the scale. A bargain was promptly struck, the month's rent was\npaid upon the nail, and about an hour later the Finsbury brothers might\nhave been observed returning to the blighted cottage, having along with\nthem the key, which was the symbol of their tenancy, a spirit-lamp, with\nwhich they fondly told themselves they would be able to cook, a pork pie\nof suitable dimensions, and a quart of the worst whisky in Hampshire.\nNor was this all they had effected; already (under the plea that they\nwere landscape-painters) they had hired for dawn on the morrow a light\nbut solid two-wheeled cart; so that when they entered in their new\ncharacter, they were able to tell themselves that the back of the\nbusiness was already broken.\n\nJohn proceeded to get tea; while Morris, foraging about the house, was\npresently delighted by discovering the lid of the water-butt upon the\nkitchen shelf. Here, then, was the packing-case complete; in the absence\nof straw, the blankets (which he himself, at least, had not the smallest\nintention of using for their present purpose) would exactly take the\nplace of packing; and Morris, as the difficulties began to vanish from\nhis path, rose almost to the brink of exultation. There was, however,\none difficulty not yet faced, one upon which his whole scheme depended.\nWould John consent to remain alone in the cottage? He had not yet dared\nto put the question.\n\nIt was with high good-humour that the pair sat down to the deal table,\nand proceeded to fall-to on the pork pie. Morris retailed the discovery\nof the lid, and the Great Vance was pleased to applaud by beating on the\ntable with his fork in true music-hall style.\n\n'That's the dodge,' he cried. 'I always said a water-butt was what you\nwanted for this business.'\n\n'Of course,' said Morris, thinking this a favourable opportunity to\nprepare his brother, 'of course you must stay on in this place till I\ngive the word; I'll give out that uncle is resting in the New Forest. It\nwould not do for both of us to appear in London; we could never conceal\nthe absence of the old man.'\n\nJohn's jaw dropped.\n\n'O, come!' he cried. 'You can stay in this hole yourself. I won't.'\n\nThe colour came into Morris's cheeks. He saw that he must win his\nbrother at any cost.\n\n'You must please remember, Johnny,' he said, 'the amount of the tontine.\nIf I succeed, we shall have each fifty thousand to place to our bank\naccount; ay, and nearer sixty.'\n\n'But if you fail,' returned John, 'what then? What'll be the colour of\nour bank account in that case?'\n\n'I will pay all expenses,' said Morris, with an inward struggle; 'you\nshall lose nothing.'\n\n'Well,' said John, with a laugh, 'if the ex-s are yours, and\nhalf-profits mine, I don't mind remaining here for a couple of days.'\n\n'A couple of days!' cried Morris, who was beginning to get angry and\ncontrolled himself with difficulty; 'why, you would do more to win five\npounds on a horse-race!'\n\n'Perhaps I would,' returned the Great Vance; 'it's the artistic\ntemperament.'\n\n'This is monstrous!' burst out Morris. 'I take all risks; I pay all\nexpenses; I divide profits; and you won't take the slightest pains to\nhelp me. It's not decent; it's not honest; it's not even kind.'\n\n'But suppose,' objected John, who was considerably impressed by his\nbrother's vehemence, 'suppose that Uncle Masterman is alive after all,\nand lives ten years longer; must I rot here all that time?'\n\n'Of course not,' responded Morris, in a more conciliatory tone; 'I only\nask a month at the outside; and if Uncle Masterman is not dead by that\ntime you can go abroad.'\n\n'Go abroad?' repeated John eagerly. 'Why shouldn't I go at once? Tell\n'em that Joseph and I are seeing life in Paris.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Morris.\n\n'Well, but look here,' said John; 'it's this house, it's such a pig-sty,\nit's so dreary and damp. You said yourself that it was damp.'\n\n'Only to the carpenter,' Morris distinguished, 'and that was to reduce\nthe rent. But really, you know, now we're in it, I've seen worse.'\n\n'And what am I to do?' complained the victim. 'How can I entertain a\nfriend?'\n\n'My dear Johnny, if you don't think the tontine worth a little trouble,\nsay so, and I'll give the business up.'\n\n'You're dead certain of the figures, I suppose?' asked John.\n'Well'--with a deep sigh--'send me the Pink Un and all the comic papers\nregularly. I'll face the music.'\n\nAs afternoon drew on, the cottage breathed more thrillingly of its\nnative marsh; a creeping chill inhabited its chambers; the fire smoked,\nand a shower of rain, coming up from the channel on a slant of wind,\ntingled on the window-panes. At intervals, when the gloom deepened\ntoward despair, Morris would produce the whisky-bottle, and at first\nJohn welcomed the diversion--not for long. It has been said this spirit\nwas the worst in Hampshire; only those acquainted with the county can\nappreciate the force of that superlative; and at length even the Great\nVance (who was no connoisseur) waved the decoction from his lips. The\napproach of dusk, feebly combated with a single tallow candle, added\na touch of tragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his\nfingers--an art to the practice of which he had been reduced--and\nbitterly lamented his concessions.\n\n'I can't stay here a month,' he cried. 'No one could. The thing's\nnonsense, Morris. The parties that lived in the Bastille would rise\nagainst a place like this.'\n\nWith an admirable affectation of indifference, Morris proposed a game\nof pitch-and-toss. To what will not the diplomatist condescend! It was\nJohn's favourite game; indeed his only game--he had found all the rest\ntoo intellectual--and he played it with equal skill and good fortune. To\nMorris himself, on the other hand, the whole business was detestable;\nhe was a bad pitcher, he had no luck in tossing, and he was one who\nsuffered torments when he lost. But John was in a dangerous humour, and\nhis brother was prepared for any sacrifice.\n\nBy seven o'clock, Morris, with incredible agony, had lost a couple of\nhalf-crowns. Even with the tontine before his eyes, this was as much as\nhe could bear; and, remarking that he would take his revenge some other\ntime, he proposed a bit of supper and a grog.\n\nBefore they had made an end of this refreshment it was time to be at\nwork. A bucket of water for present necessities was withdrawn from the\nwater-butt, which was then emptied and rolled before the kitchen fire to\ndry; and the two brothers set forth on their adventure under a starless\nheaven.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. The Lecturer at Large\n\nWhether mankind is really partial to happiness is an open question.\nNot a month passes by but some cherished son runs off into the merchant\nservice, or some valued husband decamps to Texas with a lady help;\nclergymen have fled from their parishioners; and even judges have been\nknown to retire. To an open mind, it will appear (upon the whole) less\nstrange that Joseph Finsbury should have been led to entertain ideas of\nescape. His lot (I think we may say) was not a happy one. My friend, Mr\nMorris, with whom I travel up twice or thrice a week from Snaresbrook\nPark, is certainly a gentleman whom I esteem; but he was scarce a model\nnephew. As for John, he is of course an excellent fellow; but if he was\nthe only link that bound one to a home, I think the most of us would\nvote for foreign travel. In the case of Joseph, John (if he were a link\nat all) was not the only one; endearing bonds had long enchained the old\ngentleman to Bloomsbury; and by these expressions I do not in the least\nrefer to Julia Hazeltine (of whom, however, he was fond enough), but to\nthat collection of manuscript notebooks in which his life lay buried.\nThat he should ever have made up his mind to separate himself from these\ncollections, and go forth upon the world with no other resources than\nhis memory supplied, is a circumstance highly pathetic in itself, and\nbut little creditable to the wisdom of his nephews.\n\nThe design, or at least the temptation, was already some months old; and\nwhen a bill for eight hundred pounds, payable to himself, was suddenly\nplaced in Joseph's hand, it brought matters to an issue. He retained\nthat bill, which, to one of his frugality, meant wealth; and he promised\nhimself to disappear among the crowds at Waterloo, or (if that should\nprove impossible) to slink out of the house in the course of the\nevening and melt like a dream into the millions of London. By a peculiar\ninterposition of Providence and railway mismanagement he had not so long\nto wait.\n\nHe was one of the first to come to himself and scramble to his feet\nafter the Browndean catastrophe, and he had no sooner remarked his\nprostrate nephews than he understood his opportunity and fled. A man of\nupwards of seventy, who has just met with a railway accident, and who is\ncumbered besides with the full uniform of Sir Faraday Bond, is not\nvery likely to flee far, but the wood was close at hand and offered the\nfugitive at least a temporary covert. Hither, then, the old gentleman\nskipped with extraordinary expedition, and, being somewhat winded and\na good deal shaken, here he lay down in a convenient grove and was\npresently overwhelmed by slumber. The way of fate is often highly\nentertaining to the looker-on, and it is certainly a pleasant\ncircumstance, that while Morris and John were delving in the sand to\nconceal the body of a total stranger, their uncle lay in dreamless sleep\na few hundred yards deeper in the wood.\n\nHe was awakened by the jolly note of a bugle from the neighbouring high\nroad, where a char-a-banc was bowling by with some belated tourists. The\nsound cheered his old heart, it directed his steps into the bargain, and\nsoon he was on the highway, looking east and west from under his vizor,\nand doubtfully revolving what he ought to do. A deliberate sound of\nwheels arose in the distance, and then a cart was seen approaching, well\nfilled with parcels, driven by a good-natured looking man on a double\nbench, and displaying on a board the legend, 'I Chandler, carrier'. In\nthe infamously prosaic mind of Mr Finsbury, certain streaks of poetry\nsurvived and were still efficient; they had carried him to Asia Minor\nas a giddy youth of forty, and now, in the first hours of his recovered\nfreedom, they suggested to him the idea of continuing his flight in Mr\nChandler's cart. It would be cheap; properly broached, it might even\ncost nothing, and, after years of mittens and hygienic flannel, his\nheart leaped out to meet the notion of exposure.\n\nMr Chandler was perhaps a little puzzled to find so old a gentleman, so\nstrangely clothed, and begging for a lift on so retired a roadside.\nBut he was a good-natured man, glad to do a service, and so he took the\nstranger up; and he had his own idea of civility, and so he asked no\nquestions. Silence, in fact, was quite good enough for Mr Chandler;\nbut the cart had scarcely begun to move forward ere he found himself\ninvolved in a one-sided conversation.\n\n'I can see,' began Mr Finsbury, 'by the mixture of parcels and boxes\nthat are contained in your cart, each marked with its individual label,\nand by the good Flemish mare you drive, that you occupy the post of\ncarrier in that great English system of transport which, with all its\ndefects, is the pride of our country.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' returned Mr Chandler vaguely, for he hardly knew what to\nreply; 'them parcels posts has done us carriers a world of harm.'\n\n'I am not a prejudiced man,' continued Joseph Finsbury. 'As a young\nman I travelled much. Nothing was too small or too obscure for me to\nacquire. At sea I studied seamanship, learned the complicated knots\nemployed by mariners, and acquired the technical terms. At Naples,\nI would learn the art of making macaroni; at Nice, the principles of\nmaking candied fruit. I never went to the opera without first buying the\nbook of the piece, and making myself acquainted with the principal airs\nby picking them out on the piano with one finger.'\n\n'You must have seen a deal, sir,' remarked the carrier, touching up his\nhorse; 'I wish I could have had your advantages.'\n\n'Do you know how often the word whip occurs in the Old Testament?'\ncontinued the old gentleman. 'One hundred and (if I remember exactly)\nforty-seven times.'\n\n'Do it indeed, sir?' said Mr Chandler. 'I never should have thought it.'\n\n'The Bible contains three million five hundred and one thousand two\nhundred and forty-nine letters. Of verses I believe there are upward of\neighteen thousand. There have been many editions of the Bible; Wycliff\nwas the first to introduce it into England about the year 1300. The\n\"Paragraph Bible\", as it is called, is a well-known edition, and is so\ncalled because it is divided into paragraphs. The \"Breeches Bible\" is\nanother well-known instance, and gets its name either because it was\nprinted by one Breeches, or because the place of publication bore that\nname.'\n\nThe carrier remarked drily that he thought that was only natural, and\nturned his attention to the more congenial task of passing a cart of\nhay; it was a matter of some difficulty, for the road was narrow, and\nthere was a ditch on either hand.\n\n'I perceive,' began Mr Finsbury, when they had successfully passed the\ncart, 'that you hold your reins with one hand; you should employ two.'\n\n'Well, I like that!' cried the carrier contemptuously. 'Why?'\n\n'You do not understand,' continued Mr Finsbury. 'What I tell you is a\nscientific fact, and reposes on the theory of the lever, a branch of\nmechanics. There are some very interesting little shilling books upon\nthe field of study, which I should think a man in your station would\ntake a pleasure to read. But I am afraid you have not cultivated the art\nof observation; at least we have now driven together for some time, and\nI cannot remember that you have contributed a single fact. This is a\nvery false principle, my good man. For instance, I do not know if you\nobserved that (as you passed the hay-cart man) you took your left?'\n\n'Of course I did,' cried the carrier, who was now getting belligerent;\n'he'd have the law on me if I hadn't.'\n\n'In France, now,' resumed the old man, 'and also, I believe, in the\n\nUnited States of America, you would have taken the right.'\n\n'I would not,' cried Mr Chandler indignantly. 'I would have taken the\nleft.'\n\n'I observe again,' continued Mr Finsbury, scorning to reply, 'that you\nmend the dilapidated parts of your harness with string. I have always\nprotested against this carelessness and slovenliness of the English\npoor. In an essay that I once read before an appreciative audience--'\n\n'It ain't string,' said the carrier sullenly, 'it's pack-thread.'\n\n'I have always protested,' resumed the old man, 'that in their private\nand domestic life, as well as in their labouring career, the lower\nclasses of this country are improvident, thriftless, and extravagant. A\nstitch in time--'\n\n'Who the devil ARE the lower classes?' cried the carrier. 'You are the\nlower classes yourself! If I thought you were a blooming aristocrat, I\nshouldn't have given you a lift.'\n\nThe words were uttered with undisguised ill-feeling; it was plain the\npair were not congenial, and further conversation, even to one of Mr\nFinsbury's pathetic loquacity, was out of the question. With an angry\ngesture, he pulled down the brim of the forage-cap over his eyes,\nand, producing a notebook and a blue pencil from one of his innermost\npockets, soon became absorbed in calculations.\n\nOn his part the carrier fell to whistling with fresh zest; and if (now\nand again) he glanced at the companion of his drive, it was with mingled\nfeelings of triumph and alarm--triumph because he had succeeded in\narresting that prodigy of speech, and alarm lest (by any accident) it\nshould begin again. Even the shower, which presently overtook and passed\nthem, was endured by both in silence; and it was still in silence that\nthey drove at length into Southampton.\n\nDusk had fallen; the shop windows glimmered forth into the streets of\nthe old seaport; in private houses lights were kindled for the evening\nmeal; and Mr Finsbury began to think complacently of his night's\nlodging. He put his papers by, cleared his throat, and looked doubtfully\nat Mr Chandler.\n\n'Will you be civil enough,' said he, 'to recommend me to an inn?' Mr\nChandler pondered for a moment.\n\n'Well,' he said at last, 'I wonder how about the \"Tregonwell Arms\".'\n\n'The \"Tregonwell Arms\" will do very well,' returned the old man, 'if\nit's clean and cheap, and the people civil.'\n\n'I wasn't thinking so much of you,' returned Mr Chandler thoughtfully.\n'I was thinking of my friend Watts as keeps the 'ouse; he's a friend of\nmine, you see, and he helped me through my trouble last year. And I was\nthinking, would it be fair-like on Watts to saddle him with an old party\nlike you, who might be the death of him with general information. Would\nit be fair to the 'ouse?' enquired Mr Chandler, with an air of candid\nappeal.\n\n'Mark me,' cried the old gentleman with spirit. 'It was kind in you to\nbring me here for nothing, but it gives you no right to address me\nin such terms. Here's a shilling for your trouble; and, if you do\nnot choose to set me down at the \"Tregonwell Arms\", I can find it for\nmyself.'\n\nChandler was surprised and a little startled; muttering something\napologetic, he returned the shilling, drove in silence through several\nintricate lanes and small streets, drew up at length before the bright\nwindows of an inn, and called loudly for Mr Watts.\n\n'Is that you, Jem?' cried a hearty voice from the stableyard. 'Come in\nand warm yourself.'\n\n'I only stopped here,' Mr Chandler explained, 'to let down an old gent\nthat wants food and lodging. Mind, I warn you agin him; he's worse nor a\ntemperance lecturer.'\n\nMr Finsbury dismounted with difficulty, for he was cramped with his long\ndrive, and the shaking he had received in the accident. The friendly Mr\nWatts, in spite of the carter's scarcely agreeable introduction, treated\nthe old gentleman with the utmost courtesy, and led him into the back\nparlour, where there was a big fire burning in the grate. Presently a\ntable was spread in the same room, and he was invited to seat himself\nbefore a stewed fowl--somewhat the worse for having seen service\nbefore--and a big pewter mug of ale from the tap.\n\nHe rose from supper a giant refreshed; and, changing his seat to one\nnearer the fire, began to examine the other guests with an eye to the\ndelights of oratory. There were near a dozen present, all men, and (as\nJoseph exulted to perceive) all working men. Often already had he seen\ncause to bless that appetite for disconnected fact and rotatory argument\nwhich is so marked a character of the mechanic. But even an audience of\nworking men has to be courted, and there was no man more deeply versed\nin the necessary arts than Joseph Finsbury. He placed his glasses on his\nnose, drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, and spread them before\nhim on a table. He crumpled them, he smoothed them out; now he skimmed\nthem over, apparently well pleased with their contents; now, with\ntapping pencil and contracted brows, he seemed maturely to consider some\nparticular statement. A stealthy glance about the room assured him of\nthe success of his manoeuvres; all eyes were turned on the performer,\nmouths were open, pipes hung suspended; the birds were charmed. At the\nsame moment the entrance of Mr Watts afforded him an opportunity.\n\n'I observe,' said he, addressing the landlord, but taking at the same\ntime the whole room into his confidence with an encouraging look, 'I\nobserve that some of these gentlemen are looking with curiosity in\nmy direction; and certainly it is unusual to see anyone immersed in\nliterary and scientific labours in the public apartment of an inn. I\nhave here some calculations I made this morning upon the cost of living\nin this and other countries--a subject, I need scarcely say, highly\ninteresting to the working classes. I have calculated a scale of living\nfor incomes of eighty, one hundred and sixty, two hundred, and two\nhundred and forty pounds a year. I must confess that the income of\neighty pounds has somewhat baffled me, and the others are not so exact\nas I could wish; for the price of washing varies largely in foreign\ncountries, and the different cokes, coals and firewoods fluctuate\nsurprisingly. I will read my researches, and I hope you won't scruple to\npoint out to me any little errors that I may have committed either from\noversight or ignorance. I will begin, gentlemen, with the income of\neighty pounds a year.'\n\nWhereupon the old gentleman, with less compassion than he would have had\nfor brute beasts, delivered himself of all his tedious calculations.\nAs he occasionally gave nine versions of a single income, placing\nthe imaginary person in London, Paris, Bagdad, Spitzbergen,\nBassorah, Heligoland, the Scilly Islands, Brighton, Cincinnati, and\nNijni-Novgorod, with an appropriate outfit for each locality, it is no\nwonder that his hearers look back on that evening as the most tiresome\nthey ever spent.\n\nLong before Mr Finsbury had reached Nijni-Novgorod with the income of\none hundred and sixty pounds, the company had dwindled and faded away to\na few old topers and the bored but affable Watts. There was a constant\nstream of customers from the outer world, but so soon as they were\nserved they drank their liquor quickly and departed with the utmost\ncelerity for the next public-house.\n\nBy the time the young man with two hundred a year was vegetating in the\nScilly Islands, Mr Watts was left alone with the economist; and that\nimaginary person had scarce commenced life at Brighton before the last\nof his pursuers desisted from the chase.\n\nMr Finsbury slept soundly after the manifold fatigues of the day. He\nrose late, and, after a good breakfast, ordered the bill. Then it was\nthat he made a discovery which has been made by many others, both before\nand since: that it is one thing to order your bill, and another to\ndischarge it. The items were moderate and (what does not always follow)\nthe total small; but, after the most sedulous review of all his pockets,\none and nine pence halfpenny appeared to be the total of the old\ngentleman's available assets. He asked to see Mr Watts.\n\n'Here is a bill on London for eight hundred pounds,' said Mr Finsbury,\nas that worthy appeared. 'I am afraid, unless you choose to discount it\nyourself, it may detain me a day or two till I can get it cashed.'\n\nMr Watts looked at the bill, turned it over, and dogs-eared it with his\nfingers. 'It will keep you a day or two?' he said, repeating the old\nman's words. 'You have no other money with you?'\n\n'Some trifling change,' responded Joseph. 'Nothing to speak of.'\n\n'Then you can send it me; I should be pleased to trust you.'\n\n'To tell the truth,' answered the old gentleman, 'I am more than half\ninclined to stay; I am in need of funds.'\n\n'If a loan of ten shillings would help you, it is at your service,'\nresponded Watts, with eagerness.\n\n'No, I think I would rather stay,' said the old man, 'and get my bill\ndiscounted.'\n\n'You shall not stay in my house,' cried Mr Watts. 'This is the last time\nyou shall have a bed at the \"Tregonwell Arms\".'\n\n'I insist upon remaining,' replied Mr Finsbury, with spirit; 'I remain\nby Act of Parliament; turn me out if you dare.'\n\n'Then pay your bill,' said Mr Watts.\n\n'Take that,' cried the old man, tossing him the negotiable bill.\n\n'It is not legal tender,' replied Mr Watts. 'You must leave my house at\nonce.'\n\n'You cannot appreciate the contempt I feel for you, Mr Watts,' said the\nold gentleman, resigning himself to circumstances. 'But you shall feel\nit in one way: I refuse to pay my bill.'\n\n'I don't care for your bill,' responded Mr Watts. 'What I want is your\nabsence.'\n\n'That you shall have!' said the old gentleman, and, taking up his\nforage cap as he spoke, he crammed it on his head. 'Perhaps you are\ntoo insolent,' he added, 'to inform me of the time of the next London\ntrain?'\n\n'It leaves in three-quarters of an hour,' returned the innkeeper with\nalacrity. 'You can easily catch it.'\n\nJoseph's position was one of considerable weakness. On the one hand, it\nwould have been well to avoid the direct line of railway, since it was\nthere he might expect his nephews to lie in wait for his recapture; on\nthe other, it was highly desirable, it was even strictly needful, to get\nthe bill discounted ere it should be stopped. To London, therefore, he\ndecided to proceed on the first train; and there remained but one point\nto be considered, how to pay his fare.\n\nJoseph's nails were never clean; he ate almost entirely with his knife.\nI doubt if you could say he had the manners of a gentleman; but he had\nbetter than that, a touch of genuine dignity. Was it from his stay in\nAsia Minor? Was it from a strain in the Finsbury blood sometimes\nalluded to by customers? At least, when he presented himself before the\nstation-master, his salaam was truly Oriental, palm-trees appeared to\ncrowd about the little office, and the simoom or the bulbul--but I leave\nthis image to persons better acquainted with the East. His appearance,\nbesides, was highly in his favour; the uniform of Sir Faraday, however\ninconvenient and conspicuous, was, at least, a costume in which no\nswindler could have hoped to prosper; and the exhibition of a valuable\nwatch and a bill for eight hundred pounds completed what deportment had\nbegun. A quarter of an hour later, when the train came up, Mr Finsbury\nwas introduced to the guard and installed in a first-class compartment,\nthe station-master smilingly assuming all responsibility.\n\nAs the old gentleman sat waiting the moment of departure, he was the\nwitness of an incident strangely connected with the fortunes of his\nhouse. A packing-case of cyclopean bulk was borne along the platform\nby some dozen of tottering porters, and ultimately, to the delight of a\nconsiderable crowd, hoisted on board the van. It is often the cheering\ntask of the historian to direct attention to the designs and (if it may\nbe reverently said) the artifices of Providence. In the luggage van, as\nJoseph was borne out of the station of Southampton East upon his way\nto London, the egg of his romance lay (so to speak) unhatched. The\nhuge packing-case was directed to lie at Waterloo till called for, and\naddressed to one 'William Dent Pitman'; and the very next article,\na goodly barrel jammed into the corner of the van, bore the\nsuperscription, 'M. Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury. Carriage\npaid.'\n\nIn this juxtaposition, the train of powder was prepared; and there was\nnow wanting only an idle hand to fire it off.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. The Magistrate in the Luggage Van\n\nThe city of Winchester is famed for a cathedral, a bishop--but he was\nunfortunately killed some years ago while riding--a public school, a\nconsiderable assortment of the military, and the deliberate passage of\nthe trains of the London and South-Western line. These and many\nsimilar associations would have doubtless crowded on the mind of Joseph\nFinsbury; but his spirit had at that time flitted from the railway\ncompartment to a heaven of populous lecture-halls and endless oratory.\nHis body, in the meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap\nrakishly tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for\nnursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent, one arm clutching to his\nheart Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper.\n\nTo him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of voyagers.\nThese two had saved the train and no more. A tandem urged to its last\nspeed, an act of something closely bordering on brigandage at the ticket\noffice, and a spasm of running, had brought them on the platform just\nas the engine uttered its departing snort. There was but one carriage\neasily within their reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader\nand elder already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr\nFinsbury.\n\n'Good God!' he cried. 'Uncle Joseph! This'll never do.'\n\nAnd he backed out, almost upsetting his companion, and once more closed\nthe door upon the sleeping patriarch.\n\nThe next moment the pair had jumped into the baggage van.\n\n'What's the row about your Uncle Joseph?' enquired the younger\ntraveller, mopping his brow. 'Does he object to smoking?'\n\n'I don't know that there's anything the row with him,' returned the\nother. 'He's by no means the first comer, my Uncle Joseph, I can tell\nyou! Very respectable old gentleman; interested in leather; been to Asia\nMinor; no family, no assets--and a tongue, my dear Wickham, sharper than\na serpent's tooth.'\n\n'Cantankerous old party, eh?' suggested Wickham.\n\n'Not in the least,' cried the other; 'only a man with a solid talent\nfor being a bore; rather cheery I dare say, on a desert island, but on\na railway journey insupportable. You should hear him on Tonti, the ass\nthat started tontines. He's incredible on Tonti.'\n\n'By Jove!' cried Wickham, 'then you're one of these Finsbury tontine\nfellows. I hadn't a guess of that.'\n\n'Ah!' said the other, 'do you know that old boy in the carriage is worth\na hundred thousand pounds to me? There he was asleep, and nobody there\nbut you! But I spared him, because I'm a Conservative in politics.'\n\nMr Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and fro like\na gentlemanly butterfly.\n\n'By Jingo!' he cried, 'here's something for you! \"M. Finsbury, 16 John\nStreet, Bloomsbury, London.\" M. stands for Michael, you sly dog; you\nkeep two establishments, do you?'\n\n'O, that's Morris,' responded Michael from the other end of the van,\nwhere he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks. 'He's a little\ncousin of mine. I like him myself, because he's afraid of me. He's\none of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, and has a collection of some\nkind--birds' eggs or something that's supposed to be curious. I bet it's\nnothing to my clients!'\n\n'What a lark it would be to play billy with the labels!' chuckled Mr\nWickham. 'By George, here's a tack-hammer! We might send all these\nthings skipping about the premises like what's-his-name!'\n\nAt this moment, the guard, surprised by the sound of voices, opened the\ndoor of his little cabin.\n\n'You had best step in here, gentlemen,' said he, when he had heard their\nstory.\n\n'Won't you come, Wickham?' asked Michael.\n\n'Catch me--I want to travel in a van,' replied the youth.\n\nAnd so the door of communication was closed; and for the rest of the run\nMr Wickham was left alone over his diversions on the one side, and on\nthe other Michael and the guard were closeted together in familiar talk.\n\n'I can get you a compartment here, sir,' observed the official, as the\ntrain began to slacken speed before Bishopstoke station. 'You had best\nget out at my door, and I can bring your friend.'\n\nMr Wickham, whom we left (as the reader has shrewdly suspected)\nbeginning to 'play billy' with the labels in the van, was a young\ngentleman of much wealth, a pleasing but sandy exterior, and a highly\nvacant mind. Not many months before, he had contrived to get himself\nblackmailed by the family of a Wallachian Hospodar, resident for\npolitical reasons in the gay city of Paris. A common friend (to whom he\nhad confided his distress) recommended him to Michael; and the lawyer\nwas no sooner in possession of the facts than he instantly assumed\nthe offensive, fell on the flank of the Wallachian forces, and, in the\ninside of three days, had the satisfaction to behold them routed and\nfleeing for the Danube. It is no business of ours to follow them on\nthis retreat, over which the police were so obliging as to preside\npaternally. Thus relieved from what he loved to refer to as the\nBulgarian Atrocity, Mr Wickham returned to London with the most\nunbounded and embarrassing gratitude and admiration for his saviour.\nThese sentiments were not repaid either in kind or degree; indeed,\nMichael was a trifle ashamed of his new client's friendship; it had\ntaken many invitations to get him to Winchester and Wickham Manor; but\nhe had gone at last, and was now returning. It has been remarked by some\njudicious thinker (possibly J. F. Smith) that Providence despises to\nemploy no instrument, however humble; and it is now plain to the dullest\nthat both Mr Wickham and the Wallachian Hospodar were liquid lead and\nwedges in the hand of Destiny.\n\nSmitten with the desire to shine in Michael's eyes and show himself a\nperson of original humour and resources, the young gentleman (who was a\nmagistrate, more by token, in his native county) was no sooner alone in\nthe van than he fell upon the labels with all the zeal of a reformer;\nand, when he rejoined the lawyer at Bishopstoke, his face was flushed\nwith his exertions, and his cigar, which he had suffered to go out was\nalmost bitten in two.\n\n'By George, but this has been a lark!' he cried. 'I've sent the\nwrong thing to everybody in England. These cousins of yours have a\npacking-case as big as a house. I've muddled the whole business up to\nthat extent, Finsbury, that if it were to get out it's my belief we\nshould get lynched.'\n\nIt was useless to be serious with Mr Wickham. 'Take care,' said\nMichael. 'I am getting tired of your perpetual scrapes; my reputation is\nbeginning to suffer.'\n\n'Your reputation will be all gone before you finish with me,' replied\nhis companion with a grin. 'Clap it in the bill, my boy. \"For total loss\nof reputation, six and eightpence.\" But,' continued Mr Wickham with more\nseriousness, 'could I be bowled out of the Commission for this\nlittle jest? I know it's small, but I like to be a JP. Speaking as a\nprofessional man, do you think there's any risk?'\n\n'What does it matter?' responded Michael, 'they'll chuck you out sooner\nor later. Somehow you don't give the effect of being a good magistrate.'\n\n'I only wish I was a solicitor,' retorted his companion, 'instead of a\npoor devil of a country gentleman. Suppose we start one of those tontine\naffairs ourselves; I to pay five hundred a year, and you to guarantee me\nagainst every misfortune except illness or marriage.'\n\n'It strikes me,' remarked the lawyer with a meditative laugh, as he\nlighted a cigar, 'it strikes me that you must be a cursed nuisance in\nthis world of ours.'\n\n'Do you really think so, Finsbury?' responded the magistrate, leaning\nback in his cushions, delighted with the compliment. 'Yes, I suppose\nI am a nuisance. But, mind you, I have a stake in the country: don't\nforget that, dear boy.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. Mr Gideon Forsyth and the Gigantic Box\n\nIt has been mentioned that at Bournemouth Julia sometimes made\nacquaintances; it is true she had but a glimpse of them before the\ndoors of John Street closed again upon its captives, but the glimpse\nwas sometimes exhilarating, and the consequent regret was tempered\nwith hope. Among those whom she had thus met a year before was a young\nbarrister of the name of Gideon Forsyth.\n\nAbout three o'clock of the eventful day when the magistrate tampered\nwith the labels, a somewhat moody and distempered ramble had carried\nMr Forsyth to the corner of John Street; and about the same moment Miss\nHazeltine was called to the door of No. 16 by a thundering double knock.\n\nMr Gideon Forsyth was a happy enough young man; he would have been\nhappier if he had had more money and less uncle. One hundred and\ntwenty pounds a year was all his store; but his uncle, Mr Edward Hugh\nBloomfield, supplemented this with a handsome allowance and a great\ndeal of advice, couched in language that would probably have been judged\nintemperate on board a pirate ship. Mr Bloomfield was indeed a figure\nquite peculiar to the days of Mr Gladstone; what we may call (for the\nlack of an accepted expression) a Squirradical. Having acquired years\nwithout experience, he carried into the Radical side of politics those\nnoisy, after-dinner-table passions, which we are more accustomed to\nconnect with Toryism in its severe and senile aspects. To the opinions\nof Mr Bradlaugh, in fact, he added the temper and the sympathies of that\nextinct animal, the Squire; he admired pugilism, he carried a formidable\noaken staff, he was a reverent churchman, and it was hard to know which\nwould have more volcanically stirred his choler--a person who should\nhave defended the established church, or one who should have neglected\nto attend its celebrations. He had besides some levelling catchwords,\njustly dreaded in the family circle; and when he could not go so far\nas to declare a step un-English, he might still (and with hardly less\neffect) denounce it as unpractical. It was under the ban of this lesser\nexcommunication that Gideon had fallen. His views on the study of law\nhad been pronounced unpractical; and it had been intimated to him, in\na vociferous interview punctuated with the oaken staff, that he must\neither take a new start and get a brief or two, or prepare to live on\nhis own money.\n\nNo wonder if Gideon was moody. He had not the slightest wish to modify\nhis present habits; but he would not stand on that, since the recall of\nMr Bloomfield's allowance would revolutionize them still more radically.\nHe had not the least desire to acquaint himself with law; he had looked\ninto it already, and it seemed not to repay attention; but upon this\nalso he was ready to give way. In fact, he would go as far as he could\nto meet the views of his uncle, the Squirradical. But there was one part\nof the programme that appeared independent of his will. How to get\na brief? there was the question. And there was another and a worse.\nSuppose he got one, should he prove the better man?\n\nSuddenly he found his way barred by a crowd. A garishly illuminated van\nwas backed against the kerb; from its open stern, half resting on the\nstreet, half supported by some glistening athletes, the end of the\nlargest packing-case in the county of Middlesex might have been seen\nprotruding; while, on the steps of the house, the burly person of\nthe driver and the slim figure of a young girl stood as upon a stage,\ndisputing.\n\n'It is not for us,' the girl was saying. 'I beg you to take it away; it\ncouldn't get into the house, even if you managed to get it out of the\nvan.'\n\n'I shall leave it on the pavement, then, and M. Finsbury can arrange\nwith the Vestry as he likes,' said the vanman.\n\n'But I am not M. Finsbury,' expostulated the girl.\n\n'It doesn't matter who you are,' said the vanman.\n\n'You must allow me to help you, Miss Hazeltine,' said Gideon, putting\nout his hand.\n\nJulia gave a little cry of pleasure. 'O, Mr Forsyth,' she cried, 'I am\nso glad to see you; we must get this horrid thing, which can only have\ncome here by mistake, into the house. The man says we'll have to take\noff the door, or knock two of our windows into one, or be fined by\nthe Vestry or Custom House or something for leaving our parcels on the\npavement.'\n\nThe men by this time had successfully removed the box from the van, had\nplumped it down on the pavement, and now stood leaning against it, or\ngazing at the door of No. 16, in visible physical distress and mental\nembarrassment. The windows of the whole street had filled, as if by\nmagic, with interested and entertained spectators.\n\nWith as thoughtful and scientific an expression as he could assume,\nGideon measured the doorway with his cane, while Julia entered his\nobservations in a drawing-book. He then measured the box, and, upon\ncomparing his data, found that there was just enough space for it to\nenter. Next, throwing off his coat and waistcoat, he assisted the men to\ntake the door from its hinges. And lastly, all bystanders being pressed\ninto the service, the packing-case mounted the steps upon some\nfifteen pairs of wavering legs--scraped, loudly grinding, through the\ndoorway--and was deposited at length, with a formidable convulsion, in\nthe far end of the lobby, which it almost blocked. The artisans of this\nvictory smiled upon each other as the dust subsided. It was true they\nhad smashed a bust of Apollo and ploughed the wall into deep ruts; but,\nat least, they were no longer one of the public spectacles of London.\n\n'Well, sir,' said the vanman, 'I never see such a job.'\n\nGideon eloquently expressed his concurrence in this sentiment by\npressing a couple of sovereigns in the man's hand.\n\n'Make it three, sir, and I'll stand Sam to everybody here!' cried the\nlatter, and, this having been done, the whole body of volunteer porters\nswarmed into the van, which drove off in the direction of the nearest\nreliable public-house. Gideon closed the door on their departure, and\nturned to Julia; their eyes met; the most uncontrollable mirth seized\nupon them both, and they made the house ring with their laughter. Then\ncuriosity awoke in Julia's mind, and she went and examined the box, and\nmore especially the label.\n\n'This is the strangest thing that ever happened,' she said, with another\nburst of laughter. 'It is certainly Morris's handwriting, and I had a\nletter from him only this morning, telling me to expect a barrel. Is\nthere a barrel coming too, do you think, Mr Forsyth?'\n\n\"'Statuary with Care, Fragile,'\" read Gideon aloud from the painted\nwarning on the box. 'Then you were told nothing about this?'\n\n'No,' responded Julia. 'O, Mr Forsyth, don't you think we might take a\npeep at it?'\n\n'Yes, indeed,' cried Gideon. 'Just let me have a hammer.'\n\n'Come down, and I'll show you where it is,' cried Julia. 'The shelf is\ntoo high for me to reach'; and, opening the door of the kitchen stair,\nshe bade Gideon follow her. They found both the hammer and a chisel;\nbut Gideon was surprised to see no sign of a servant. He also discovered\nthat Miss Hazeltine had a very pretty little foot and ankle; and the\ndiscovery embarrassed him so much that he was glad to fall at once upon\nthe packing-case.\n\nHe worked hard and earnestly, and dealt his blows with the precision\nof a blacksmith; Julia the while standing silently by his side, and\nregarding rather the workman than the work. He was a handsome fellow;\nshe told herself she had never seen such beautiful arms. And suddenly,\nas though he had overheard these thoughts, Gideon turned and smiled to\nher. She, too, smiled and coloured; and the double change became her\nso prettily that Gideon forgot to turn away his eyes, and, swinging the\nhammer with a will, discharged a smashing blow on his own knuckles. With\nadmirable presence of mind he crushed down an oath and substituted the\nharmless comment, 'Butter fingers!' But the pain was sharp, his nerve\nwas shaken, and after an abortive trial he found he must desist from\nfurther operations.\n\nIn a moment Julia was off to the pantry; in a moment she was back again\nwith a basin of water and a sponge, and had begun to bathe his wounded\nhand.\n\n'I am dreadfully sorry!' said Gideon apologetically. 'If I had had\nany manners I should have opened the box first and smashed my hand\nafterward. It feels much better,' he added. 'I assure you it does.'\n\n'And now I think you are well enough to direct operations,' said she.\n'Tell me what to do, and I'll be your workman.'\n\n'A very pretty workman,' said Gideon, rather forgetting himself.\nShe turned and looked at him, with a suspicion of a frown; and\nthe indiscreet young man was glad to direct her attention to the\npacking-case. The bulk of the work had been accomplished; and presently\nJulia had burst through the last barrier and disclosed a zone of straw.\nin a moment they were kneeling side by side, engaged like haymakers; the\nnext they were rewarded with a glimpse of something white and polished;\nand the next again laid bare an unmistakable marble leg.\n\n'He is surely a very athletic person,' said Julia.\n\n'I never saw anything like it,' responded Gideon. 'His muscles stand out\nlike penny rolls.'\n\nAnother leg was soon disclosed, and then what seemed to be a third. This\nresolved itself, however, into a knotted club resting upon a pedestal.\n\n'It is a Hercules,' cried Gideon; 'I might have guessed that from his\ncalf. I'm supposed to be rather partial to statuary, but when it comes\nto Hercules, the police should interfere. I should say,' he added,\nglancing with disaffection at the swollen leg, 'that this was about the\nbiggest and the worst in Europe. What in heaven's name can have induced\nhim to come here?'\n\n'I suppose nobody else would have a gift of him,' said Julia. 'And for\nthat matter, I think we could have done without the monster very well.'\n\n'O, don't say that,' returned Gideon. 'This has been one of the most\namusing experiences of my life.'\n\n'I don't think you'll forget it very soon,' said Julia. 'Your hand will\nremind you.'\n\n'Well, I suppose I must be going,' said Gideon reluctantly. 'No,'\npleaded Julia. 'Why should you? Stay and have tea with me.'\n\n'If I thought you really wished me to stay,' said Gideon, looking at his\nhat, 'of course I should only be too delighted.'\n\n'What a silly person you must take me for!' returned the girl. 'Why, of\ncourse I do; and, besides, I want some cakes for tea, and I've nobody to\nsend. Here is the latchkey.'\n\nGideon put on his hat with alacrity, and casting one look at Miss\nHazeltine, and another at the legs of Hercules, threw open the door and\ndeparted on his errand.\n\nHe returned with a large bag of the choicest and most tempting of cakes\nand tartlets, and found Julia in the act of spreading a small tea-table\nin the lobby.\n\n'The rooms are all in such a state,' she cried, 'that I thought we\nshould be more cosy and comfortable in our own lobby, and under our own\nvine and statuary.'\n\n'Ever so much better,' cried Gideon delightedly.\n\n'O what adorable cream tarts!' said Julia, opening the bag, 'and the\ndearest little cherry tartlets, with all the cherries spilled out into\nthe cream!'\n\n'Yes,' said Gideon, concealing his dismay, 'I knew they would mix\nbeautifully; the woman behind the counter told me so.'\n\n'Now,' said Julia, as they began their little festival, 'I am going\nto show you Morris's letter; read it aloud, please; perhaps there's\nsomething I have missed.'\n\nGideon took the letter, and spreading it out on his knee, read as\nfollows:\n\n\nDEAR JULIA, I write you from Browndean, where we are stopping over for\na few days. Uncle was much shaken in that dreadful accident, of which,\nI dare say, you have seen the account. Tomorrow I leave him here with\nJohn, and come up alone; but before that, you will have received a\nbarrel CONTAINING SPECIMENS FOR A FRIEND. Do not open it on any account,\nbut leave it in the lobby till I come.\n\nYours in haste,\n\nM. FINSBURY.\n\nP.S.--Be sure and leave the barrel in the lobby.\n\n\n'No,' said Gideon, 'there seems to be nothing about the monument,'\nand he nodded, as he spoke, at the marble legs. 'Miss Hazeltine,' he\ncontinued, 'would you mind me asking a few questions?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Julia; 'and if you can make me understand why\nMorris has sent a statue of Hercules instead of a barrel containing\nspecimens for a friend, I shall be grateful till my dying day. And what\nare specimens for a friend?'\n\n'I haven't a guess,' said Gideon. 'Specimens are usually bits of stone,\nbut rather smaller than our friend the monument. Still, that is not the\npoint. Are you quite alone in this big house?'\n\n'Yes, I am at present,' returned Julia. 'I came up before them to\nprepare the house, and get another servant. But I couldn't get one I\nliked.'\n\n'Then you are utterly alone,' said Gideon in amazement. 'Are you not\nafraid?'\n\n'No,' responded Julia stoutly. 'I don't see why I should be more afraid\nthan you would be; I am weaker, of course, but when I found I must sleep\nalone in the house I bought a revolver wonderfully cheap, and made the\nman show me how to use it.'\n\n'And how do you use it?' demanded Gideon, much amused at her courage.\n\n'Why,' said she, with a smile, 'you pull the little trigger thing on\ntop, and then pointing it very low, for it springs up as you fire, you\npull the underneath little trigger thing, and it goes off as well as if\na man had done it.'\n\n'And how often have you used it?' asked Gideon.\n\n'O, I have not used it yet,' said the determined young lady; 'but I\nknow how, and that makes me wonderfully courageous, especially when I\nbarricade my door with a chest of drawers.'\n\n'I'm awfully glad they are coming back soon,' said Gideon. 'This\nbusiness strikes me as excessively unsafe; if it goes on much longer,\nI could provide you with a maiden aunt of mine, or my landlady if you\npreferred.'\n\n'Lend me an aunt!' cried Julia. 'O, what generosity! I begin to think it\nmust have been you that sent the Hercules.'\n\n'Believe me,' cried the young man, 'I admire you too much to send you\nsuch an infamous work of art..'\n\nJulia was beginning to reply, when they were both startled by a knocking\nat the door.\n\n'O, Mr Forsyth!'\n\n'Don't be afraid, my dear girl,' said Gideon, laying his hand tenderly\non her arm.\n\n'I know it's the police,' she whispered. 'They are coming to complain\nabout the statue.'\n\nThe knock was repeated. It was louder than before, and more impatient.\n\n'It's Morris,' cried Julia, in a startled voice, and she ran to the door\nand opened it.\n\nIt was indeed Morris that stood before them; not the Morris of ordinary\ndays, but a wild-looking fellow, pale and haggard, with bloodshot eyes,\nand a two-days' beard upon his chin.\n\n'The barrel!' he cried. 'Where's the barrel that came this morning?'\nAnd he stared about the lobby, his eyes, as they fell upon the legs of\nHercules, literally goggling in his head. 'What is that?' he screamed.\n'What is that waxwork? Speak, you fool! What is that? And where's the\nbarrel--the water-butt?'\n\n'No barrel came, Morris,' responded Julia coldly. 'This is the only\nthing that has arrived.'\n\n'This!' shrieked the miserable man. 'I never heard of it!'\n\n'It came addressed in your hand,' replied Julia; 'we had nearly to pull\nthe house down to get it in, that is all that I can tell you.'\n\nMorris gazed at her in utter bewilderment. He passed his hand over his\nforehead; he leaned against the wall like a man about to faint. Then his\ntongue was loosed, and he overwhelmed the girl with torrents of abuse.\nSuch fire, such directness, such a choice of ungentlemanly language,\nnone had ever before suspected Morris to possess; and the girl trembled\nand shrank before his fury.\n\n'You shall not speak to Miss Hazeltine in that way,' said Gideon\nsternly. 'It is what I will not suffer.'\n\n'I shall speak to the girl as I like,' returned Morris, with a fresh\noutburst of anger. 'I'll speak to the hussy as she deserves.'\n\n'Not a word more, sir, not one word,' cried Gideon. 'Miss Hazeltine,' he\ncontinued, addressing the young girl, 'you cannot stay a moment longer\nin the same house with this unmanly fellow. Here is my arm; let me take\nyou where you will be secure from insult.'\n\n'Mr Forsyth,' returned Julia, 'you are right; I cannot stay here longer,\nand I am sure I trust myself to an honourable gentleman.'\n\nPale and resolute, Gideon offered her his arm, and the pair descended\nthe steps, followed by Morris clamouring for the latchkey.\n\nJulia had scarcely handed the key to Morris before an empty hansom drove\nsmartly into John Street. It was hailed by both men, and as the cabman\ndrew up his restive horse, Morris made a dash into the vehicle.\n\n'Sixpence above fare,' he cried recklessly. 'Waterloo Station for your\nlife. Sixpence for yourself!'\n\n'Make it a shilling, guv'ner,' said the man, with a grin; 'the other\nparties were first.'\n\n'A shilling then,' cried Morris, with the inward reflection that he\nwould reconsider it at Waterloo. The man whipped up his horse, and the\nhansom vanished from John Street.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. The Tribulations of Morris: Part the First\n\nAs the hansom span through the streets of London, Morris sought to\nrally the forces of his mind. The water-butt with the dead body had\nmiscarried, and it was essential to recover it. So much was clear; and\nif, by some blest good fortune, it was still at the station, all might\nbe well. If it had been sent out, however, if it were already in the\nhands of some wrong person, matters looked more ominous. People who\nreceive unexplained packages are usually keen to have them open; the\nexample of Miss Hazeltine (whom he cursed again) was there to remind him\nof the circumstance; and if anyone had opened the water-butt--'O Lord!'\ncried Morris at the thought, and carried his hand to his damp forehead.\nThe private conception of any breach of law is apt to be inspiriting,\nfor the scheme (while yet inchoate) wears dashing and attractive\ncolours. Not so in the least that part of the criminal's later\nreflections which deal with the police. That useful corps (as Morris\nnow began to think) had scarce been kept sufficiently in view when\nhe embarked upon his enterprise. 'I must play devilish close,' he\nreflected, and he was aware of an exquisite thrill of fear in the region\nof the spine.\n\n'Main line or loop?' enquired the cabman, through the scuttle.\n\n'Main line,' replied Morris, and mentally decided that the man should\nhave his shilling after all. 'It would be madness to attract attention,'\nthought he. 'But what this thing will cost me, first and last, begins to\nbe a nightmare!'\n\nHe passed through the booking-office and wandered disconsolately on the\nplatform. It was a breathing-space in the day's traffic. There were\nfew people there, and these for the most part quiescent on the benches.\nMorris seemed to attract no remark, which was a good thing; but, on the\nother hand, he was making no progress in his quest. Something must be\ndone, something must be risked. Every passing instant only added to his\ndangers. Summoning all his courage, he stopped a porter, and asked him\nif he remembered receiving a barrel by the morning train. He was anxious\nto get information, for the barrel belonged to a friend. 'It is a matter\nof some moment,' he added, 'for it contains specimens.'\n\n'I was not here this morning, sir,' responded the porter, somewhat\nreluctantly, 'but I'll ask Bill. Do you recollect, Bill, to have got a\nbarrel from Bournemouth this morning containing specimens?'\n\n'I don't know about specimens,' replied Bill; 'but the party as received\nthe barrel I mean raised a sight of trouble.'\n\n'What's that?' cried Morris, in the agitation of the moment pressing a\npenny into the man's hand.\n\n'You see, sir, the barrel arrived at one-thirty. No one claimed it till\nabout three, when a small, sickly--looking gentleman (probably a curate)\ncame up, and sez he, \"Have you got anything for Pitman?\" or \"Wili'm Bent\nPitman,\" if I recollect right. \"I don't exactly know,\" sez I, \"but I\nrather fancy that there barrel bears that name.\" The little man went\nup to the barrel, and seemed regularly all took aback when he saw the\naddress, and then he pitched into us for not having brought what he\nwanted. \"I don't care a damn what you want,\" sez I to him, \"but if you\nare Will'm Bent Pitman, there's your barrel.\"'\n\n'Well, and did he take it?' cried the breathless Morris.\n\n'Well, sir,' returned Bill, 'it appears it was a packing-case he was\nafter. The packing-case came; that's sure enough, because it was about\nthe biggest packing-case ever I clapped eyes on. And this Pitman he\nseemed a good deal cut up, and he had the superintendent out, and\nthey got hold of the vanman--him as took the packing-case. Well, sir,'\ncontinued Bill, with a smile, 'I never see a man in such a state.\nEverybody about that van was mortal, bar the horses. Some gen'leman (as\nwell as I could make out) had given the vanman a sov.; and so that was\nwhere the trouble come in, you see.'\n\n'But what did he say?' gasped Morris.\n\n'I don't know as he SAID much, sir,' said Bill. 'But he offered to\nfight this Pitman for a pot of beer. He had lost his book, too, and the\nreceipts, and his men were all as mortal as himself. O, they were all\nlike'--and Bill paused for a simile--'like lords! The superintendent\nsacked them on the spot.'\n\n'O, come, but that's not so bad,' said Morris, with a bursting sigh. 'He\ncouldn't tell where he took the packing-case, then?'\n\n'Not he,' said Bill, 'nor yet nothink else.'\n\n'And what--what did Pitman do?' asked Morris.\n\n'O, he went off with the barrel in a four-wheeler, very trembling like,'\nreplied Bill. 'I don't believe he's a gentleman as has good health.'\n\n'Well, so the barrel's gone,' said Morris, half to himself.\n\n'You may depend on that, sir,' returned the porter. 'But you had better\nsee the superintendent.'\n\n'Not in the least; it's of no account,' said Morris. 'It only contained\nspecimens.' And he walked hastily away.\n\nEnsconced once more in a hansom, he proceeded to reconsider his\nposition. Suppose (he thought), suppose he should accept defeat and\ndeclare his uncle's death at once? He should lose the tontine, and with\nthat the last hope of his seven thousand eight hundred pounds. But on\nthe other hand, since the shilling to the hansom cabman, he had begun to\nsee that crime was expensive in its course, and, since the loss of the\nwater-butt, that it was uncertain in its consequences. Quietly at first,\nand then with growing heat, he reviewed the advantages of backing out.\nIt involved a loss; but (come to think of it) no such great loss after\nall; only that of the tontine, which had been always a toss-up, which\nat bottom he had never really expected. He reminded himself of that\neagerly; he congratulated himself upon his constant moderation. He had\nnever really expected the tontine; he had never even very definitely\nhoped to recover his seven thousand eight hundred pounds; he had been\nhurried into the whole thing by Michael's obvious dishonesty. Yes, it\nwould probably be better to draw back from this high-flying venture,\nsettle back on the leather business--\n\n'Great God!' cried Morris, bounding in the hansom like a Jack-in-a-box.\n'I have not only not gained the tontine--I have lost the leather\nbusiness!'\n\nSuch was the monstrous fact. He had no power to sign; he could not draw\na cheque for thirty shillings. Until he could produce legal evidence\nof his uncle's death, he was a penniless outcast--and as soon as he\nproduced it he had lost the tontine! There was no hesitation on the part\nof Morris; to drop the tontine like a hot chestnut, to concentrate\nall his forces on the leather business and the rest of his small but\nlegitimate inheritance, was the decision of a single instant. And the\nnext, the full extent of his calamity was suddenly disclosed to him.\nDeclare his uncle's death? He couldn't! Since the body was lost Joseph\nhad (in a legal sense) become immortal.\n\nThere was no created vehicle big enough to contain Morris and his woes.\nHe paid the hansom off and walked on he knew not whither.\n\n'I seem to have gone into this business with too much precipitation,'\nhe reflected, with a deadly sigh. 'I fear it seems too ramified for a\nperson of my powers of mind.'\n\nAnd then a remark of his uncle's flashed into his memory: If you want to\nthink clearly, put it all down on paper. 'Well, the old boy knew a thing\nor two,' said Morris. 'I will try; but I don't believe the paper was\never made that will clear my mind.'\n\nHe entered a place of public entertainment, ordered bread and cheese,\nand writing materials, and sat down before them heavily. He tried the\npen. It was an excellent pen, but what was he to write? 'I have it,'\ncried Morris. 'Robinson Crusoe and the double columns!' He prepared his\npaper after that classic model, and began as follows:\n\n Bad. ---- Good.\n\n 1. I have lost my uncle's body.\n\n 1. But then Pitman has found it.\n\n'Stop a bit,' said Morris. 'I am letting the spirit of antithesis run\naway with me. Let's start again.'\n\n Bad. ---- Good.\n\n 1. I have lost my uncle's body.\n\n 1. But then I no longer require to bury it.\n\n\n 2. I have lost the tontine.\n\n 2.But I may still save that if Pitman disposes of the body, and\n if I can find a physician who will stick at nothing.\n\n\n 3. I have lost the leather business and the rest of my uncle's\n succession.\n\n 3. But not if Pitman gives the body up to the police.\n\n'O, but in that case I go to gaol; I had forgot that,' thought Morris.\n'Indeed, I don't know that I had better dwell on that hypothesis at all;\nit's all very well to talk of facing the worst; but in a case of this\nkind a man's first duty is to his own nerve. Is there any answer to No.\n3? Is there any possible good side to such a beastly bungle? There must\nbe, of course, or where would be the use of this double-entry business?\nAnd--by George, I have it!' he exclaimed; 'it's exactly the same as the\nlast!' And he hastily re-wrote the passage:\n\n Bad. ---- Good.\n\n 3. I have lost the leather business and the rest of my uncle's\n succession.\n\n 3. But not if I can find a physician who will stick at nothing.\n\n'This venal doctor seems quite a desideratum,' he reflected. 'I want him\nfirst to give me a certificate that my uncle is dead, so that I may get\nthe leather business; and then that he's alive--but here we are again at\nthe incompatible interests!' And he returned to his tabulation:\n\n Bad. ---- Good.\n\n 4. I have almost no money.\n\n 4. But there is plenty in the bank.\n\n\n 5. Yes, but I can't get the money in the bank.\n\n 5. But--well, that seems unhappily to be the case.\n\n\n 6. I have left the bill for eight hundred pounds in Uncle\n Joseph's pocket.\n\n 6. But if Pitman is only a dishonest man, the presence of this\n bill may lead him to keep the whole thing dark and throw the body\n into the New Cut.\n\n\n 7. Yes, but if Pitman is dishonest and finds the bill, he will\n know who Joseph is, and he may blackmail me.\n\n 7. Yes, but if I am right about Uncle Masterman, I can blackmail\n Michael.\n\n\n 8. But I can't blackmail Michael (which is, besides, a very\n dangerous thing to do) until I find out.\n\n 8. Worse luck!\n\n\n 9. The leather business will soon want money for current\n expenses, and I have none to give.\n\n 9. But the leather business is a sinking ship.\n\n\n 10. Yes, but it's all the ship I have.\n\n 10. A fact.\n\n\n 11. John will soon want money, and I have none to give.\n\n 11.\n\n\n 12. And the venal doctor will want money down.\n\n 12.\n\n\n 13. And if Pitman is dishonest and don't send me to gaol, he will\n want a fortune.\n\n 13.\n\n'O, this seems to be a very one-sided business,' exclaimed Morris.\n'There's not so much in this method as I was led to think.' He crumpled\nthe paper up and threw it down; and then, the next moment, picked it\nup again and ran it over. 'It seems it's on the financial point that\nmy position is weakest,' he reflected. 'Is there positively no way of\nraising the wind? In a vast city like this, and surrounded by all the\nresources of civilization, it seems not to be conceived! Let us have\nno more precipitation. Is there nothing I can sell? My collection of\nsignet--' But at the thought of scattering these loved treasures the\nblood leaped into Morris's check. 'I would rather die!' he exclaimed,\nand, cramming his hat upon his head, strode forth into the streets.\n\n'I MUST raise funds,' he thought. 'My uncle being dead, the money in\nthe bank is mine, or would be mine but for the cursed injustice that has\npursued me ever since I was an orphan in a commercial academy. I know\nwhat any other man would do; any other man in Christendom would forge;\nalthough I don't know why I call it forging, either, when Joseph's dead,\nand the funds are my own. When I think of that, when I think that my\nuncle is really as dead as mutton, and that I can't prove it, my gorge\nrises at the injustice of the whole affair. I used to feel bitterly\nabout that seven thousand eight hundred pounds; it seems a trifle now!\nDear me, why, the day before yesterday I was comparatively happy.'\n\nAnd Morris stood on the sidewalk and heaved another sobbing sigh.\n\n'Then there's another thing,' he resumed; 'can I? Am I able? Why didn't\nI practise different handwritings while I was young? How a fellow\nregrets those lost opportunities when he grows up! But there's\none comfort: it's not morally wrong; I can try it on with a\nclear conscience, and even if I was found out, I wouldn't greatly\ncare--morally, I mean. And then, if I succeed, and if Pitman is staunch,\nthere's nothing to do but find a venal doctor; and that ought to be\nsimple enough in a place like London. By all accounts the town's\nalive with them. It wouldn't do, of course, to advertise for a corrupt\nphysician; that would be impolitic. No, I suppose a fellow has simply to\nspot along the streets for a red lamp and herbs in the window, and\nthen you go in and--and--and put it to him plainly; though it seems a\ndelicate step.'\n\nHe was near home now, after many devious wanderings, and turned up\nJohn Street. As he thrust his latchkey in the lock, another mortifying\nreflection struck him to the heart.\n\n'Not even this house is mine till I can prove him dead,' he snarled, and\nslammed the door behind him so that the windows in the attic rattled.\n\nNight had long fallen; long ago the lamps and the shop-fronts had begun\nto glitter down the endless streets; the lobby was pitch--dark; and, as\nthe devil would have it, Morris barked his shins and sprawled all his\nlength over the pedestal of Hercules. The pain was sharp; his temper was\nalready thoroughly undermined; by a last misfortune his hand closed on\nthe hammer as he fell; and, in a spasm of childish irritation, he turned\nand struck at the offending statue. There was a splintering crash.\n\n'O Lord, what have I done next?' wailed Morris; and he groped his way\nto find a candle. 'Yes,' he reflected, as he stood with the light in\nhis hand and looked upon the mutilated leg, from which about a pound of\nmuscle was detached. 'Yes, I have destroyed a genuine antique; I may be\nin for thousands!' And then there sprung up in his bosom a sort of angry\nhope. 'Let me see,' he thought. 'Julia's got rid of--, there's nothing\nto connect me with that beast Forsyth; the men were all drunk, and\n(what's better) they've been all discharged. O, come, I think this is\nanother case of moral courage! I'll deny all knowledge of the thing.'\n\nA moment more, and he stood again before the Hercules, his lips sternly\ncompressed, the coal-axe and the meat-cleaver under his arm. The next,\nhe had fallen upon the packing-case. This had been already seriously\nundermined by the operations of Gideon; a few well-directed blows, and\nit already quaked and gaped; yet a few more, and it fell about Morris in\na shower of boards followed by an avalanche of straw.\n\nAnd now the leather-merchant could behold the nature of his task: and at\nthe first sight his spirit quailed. It was, indeed, no more ambitious a\ntask for De Lesseps, with all his men and horses, to attack the hills\nof Panama, than for a single, slim young gentleman, with no previous\nexperience of labour in a quarry, to measure himself against that\nbloated monster on his pedestal. And yet the pair were well encountered:\non the one side, bulk--on the other, genuine heroic fire.\n\n'Down you shall come, you great big, ugly brute!' cried Morris aloud,\nwith something of that passion which swept the Parisian mob against the\nwalls of the Bastille. 'Down you shall come, this night. I'll have none\nof you in my lobby.'\n\nThe face, from its indecent expression, had particularly animated the\nzeal of our iconoclast; and it was against the face that he began his\noperations. The great height of the demigod--for he stood a fathom\nand half in his stocking-feet--offered a preliminary obstacle to this\nattack. But here, in the first skirmish of the battle, intellect already\nbegan to triumph over matter. By means of a pair of library steps,\nthe injured householder gained a posture of advantage; and, with great\nswipes of the coal-axe, proceeded to decapitate the brute.\n\nTwo hours later, what had been the erect image of a gigantic coal-porter\nturned miraculously white, was now no more than a medley of disjected\nmembers; the quadragenarian torso prone against the pedestal; the\nlascivious countenance leering down the kitchen stair; the legs, the\narms, the hands, and even the fingers, scattered broadcast on the lobby\nfloor. Half an hour more, and all the debris had been laboriously carted\nto the kitchen; and Morris, with a gentle sentiment of triumph, looked\nround upon the scene of his achievements. Yes, he could deny all\nknowledge of it now: the lobby, beyond the fact that it was partly\nruinous, betrayed no trace of the passage of Hercules. But it was a\nweary Morris that crept up to bed; his arms and shoulders ached, the\npalms of his hands burned from the rough kisses of the coal-axe, and\nthere was one smarting finger that stole continually to his mouth. Sleep\nlong delayed to visit the dilapidated hero, and with the first peep of\nday it had again deserted him.\n\nThe morning, as though to accord with his disastrous fortunes, dawned\ninclemently. An easterly gale was shouting in the streets; flaws of rain\nangrily assailed the windows; and as Morris dressed, the draught from\nthe fireplace vividly played about his legs.\n\n'I think,' he could not help observing bitterly, 'that with all I have\nto bear, they might have given me decent weather.'\n\nThere was no bread in the house, for Miss Hazeltine (like all women left\nto themselves) had subsisted entirely upon cake. But some of this was\nfound, and (along with what the poets call a glass of fair, cold water)\nmade up a semblance of a morning meal, and then down he sat undauntedly\nto his delicate task.\n\nNothing can be more interesting than the study of signatures,\nwritten (as they are) before meals and after, during indigestion and\nintoxication; written when the signer is trembling for the life of his\nchild or has come from winning the Derby, in his lawyer's office, or\nunder the bright eyes of his sweetheart. To the vulgar, these seem never\nthe same; but to the expert, the bank clerk, or the lithographer, they\nare constant quantities, and as recognizable as the North Star to the\nnight-watch on deck.\n\nTo all this Morris was alive. In the theory of that graceful art in\nwhich he was now embarking, our spirited leather-merchant was beyond\nall reproach. But, happily for the investor, forgery is an affair\nof practice. And as Morris sat surrounded by examples of his uncle's\nsignature and of his own incompetence, insidious depression stole upon\nhis spirits. From time to time the wind wuthered in the chimney at his\nback; from time to time there swept over Bloomsbury a squall so dark\nthat he must rise and light the gas; about him was the chill and the\nmean disorder of a house out of commission--the floor bare, the sofa\nheaped with books and accounts enveloped in a dirty table-cloth, the\npens rusted, the paper glazed with a thick film of dust; and yet these\nwere but adminicles of misery, and the true root of his depression lay\nround him on the table in the shape of misbegotten forgeries.\n\n'It's one of the strangest things I ever heard of,' he complained. 'It\nalmost seems as if it was a talent that I didn't possess.' He went once\nmore minutely through his proofs. 'A clerk would simply gibe at them,'\nsaid he. 'Well, there's nothing else but tracing possible.'\n\nHe waited till a squall had passed and there came a blink of scowling\ndaylight. Then he went to the window, and in the face of all John Street\ntraced his uncle's signature. It was a poor thing at the best. 'But it\nmust do,' said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork. 'He's\ndead, anyway.' And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and\nsallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.\n\nThere, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business,\nand with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the\nforged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller. The teller seemed to\nview it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even\nscrutinized the signature with a magnifying-glass, his surprise appeared\nto warm into disfavour. Begging to be excused for a moment, he\npassed away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an\nappreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior,\nan oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.\n\n'Mr Morris Finsbury, I believe,' said the gentlemanly man, fixing Morris\nwith a pair of double eye-glasses.\n\n'That is my name,' said Morris, quavering. 'Is there anything wrong.\n\n'Well, the fact is, Mr Finsbury, you see we are rather surprised at\nreceiving this,' said the other, flicking at the cheque. 'There are no\neffects.'\n\n'No effects?' cried Morris. 'Why, I know myself there must be\neight-and-twenty hundred pounds, if there's a penny.'\n\n'Two seven six four, I think,' replied the gentlemanly man; 'but it was\ndrawn yesterday.'\n\n'Drawn!' cried Morris.\n\n'By your uncle himself, sir,' continued the other. 'Not only that, but\nwe discounted a bill for him for--let me see--how much was it for, Mr\nBell?'\n\n'Eight hundred, Mr Judkin,' replied the teller.\n\n'Bent Pitman!' cried Morris, staggering back.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Mr Judkin.\n\n'It's--it's only an expletive,' said Morris.\n\n'I hope there's nothing wrong, Mr Finsbury,' said Mr Bell.\n\n'All I can tell you,' said Morris, with a harsh laugh,' is that the\nwhole thing's impossible. My uncle is at Bournemouth, unable to move.'\n\n'Really!' cried Mr Bell, and he recovered the cheque from Mr Judkin.\n'But this cheque is dated in London, and today,' he observed. 'How d'ye\naccount for that, sir?'\n\n'O, that was a mistake,' said Morris, and a deep tide of colour dyed his\nface and neck.\n\n'No doubt, no doubt,' said Mr Judkin, but he looked at his customer\nenquiringly.\n\n'And--and--' resumed Morris, 'even if there were no effects--this is a\nvery trifling sum to overdraw--our firm--the name of Finsbury, is surely\ngood enough for such a wretched sum as this.'\n\n'No doubt, Mr Finsbury,' returned Mr Judkin; 'and if you insist I will\ntake it into consideration; but I hardly think--in short, Mr Finsbury,\nif there had been nothing else, the signature seems hardly all that we\ncould wish.'\n\n'That's of no consequence,' replied Morris nervously. 'I'll get my uncle\nto sign another. The fact is,' he went on, with a bold stroke, 'my uncle\nis so far from well at present that he was unable to sign this cheque\nwithout assistance, and I fear that my holding the pen for him may have\nmade the difference in the signature.'\n\nMr Judkin shot a keen glance into Morris's face; and then turned and\nlooked at Mr Bell.\n\n'Well,' he said, 'it seems as if we had been victimized by a swindler.\nPray tell Mr Finsbury we shall put detectives on at once. As for this\ncheque of yours, I regret that, owing to the way it was signed, the\nbank can hardly consider it--what shall I say?--businesslike,' and he\nreturned the cheque across the counter.\n\nMorris took it up mechanically; he was thinking of something very\ndifferent.\n\n'In a--case of this kind,' he began, 'I believe the loss falls on us; I\nmean upon my uncle and myself.'\n\n'It does not, sir,' replied Mr Bell; 'the bank is responsible, and\nthe bank will either recover the money or refund it, you may depend on\nthat.'\n\nMorris's face fell; then it was visited by another gleam of hope.\n\n'I'll tell you what,' he said, 'you leave this entirely in my hands.\nI'll sift the matter. I've an idea, at any rate; and detectives,' he\nadded appealingly, 'are so expensive.'\n\n'The bank would not hear of it,' returned Mr Judkin. 'The bank stands to\nlose between three and four thousand pounds; it will spend as much more\nif necessary. An undiscovered forger is a permanent danger. We shall\nclear it up to the bottom, Mr Finsbury; set your mind at rest on that.'\n\n'Then I'll stand the loss,' said Morris boldly. 'I order you to abandon\nthe search.' He was determined that no enquiry should be made.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' returned Mr Judkin, 'but we have nothing to do with\nyou in this matter, which is one between your uncle and ourselves. If\nhe should take this opinion, and will either come here himself or let me\nsee him in his sick-room--'\n\n'Quite impossible,' cried Morris.\n\n'Well, then, you see,' said Mr Judkin, 'how my hands are tied. The whole\naffair must go at once into the hands of the police.'\n\nMorris mechanically folded the cheque and restored it to his\npocket--book.\n\n'Good--morning,' said he, and scrambled somehow out of the bank.\n\n'I don't know what they suspect,' he reflected; 'I can't make them\nout, their whole behaviour is thoroughly unbusinesslike. But it doesn't\nmatter; all's up with everything. The money has been paid; the police\nare on the scent; in two hours that idiot Pitman will be nabbed--and the\nwhole story of the dead body in the evening papers.'\n\nIf he could have heard what passed in the bank after his departure he\nwould have been less alarmed, perhaps more mortified.\n\n'That was a curious affair, Mr Bell,' said Mr Judkin.\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Mr Bell, 'but I think we have given him a fright.'\n\n'O, we shall hear no more of Mr Morris Finsbury,' returned the other;\n'it was a first attempt, and the house have dealt with us so long that\nI was anxious to deal gently. But I suppose, Mr Bell, there can be no\nmistake about yesterday? It was old Mr Finsbury himself?'\n\n'There could be no possible doubt of that,' said Mr Bell with a chuckle.\n'He explained to me the principles of banking.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Mr Judkin. 'The next time he calls ask him to step\ninto my room. It is only proper he should be warned.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. In Which William Dent Pitman takes Legal Advice\n\nNorfolk Street, King's Road--jocularly known among Mr Pitman's lodgers\nas 'Norfolk Island'--is neither a long, a handsome, nor a pleasing\nthoroughfare. Dirty, undersized maids-of-all-work issue from it in\npursuit of beer, or linger on its sidewalk listening to the voice of\nlove. The cat's-meat man passes twice a day. An occasional organ-grinder\nwanders in and wanders out again, disgusted. In holiday-time the\nstreet is the arena of the young bloods of the neighbourhood, and\nthe householders have an opportunity of studying the manly art of\nself-defence. And yet Norfolk Street has one claim to be respectable,\nfor it contains not a single shop--unless you count the public-house at\nthe corner, which is really in the King's Road.\n\nThe door of No. 7 bore a brass plate inscribed with the legend 'W. D.\nPitman, Artist'. It was not a particularly clean brass plate, nor was\nNo. 7 itself a particularly inviting place of residence. And yet it\nhad a character of its own, such as may well quicken the pulse of\nthe reader's curiosity. For here was the home of an artist--and a\ndistinguished artist too, highly distinguished by his ill-success--which\nhad never been made the subject of an article in the illustrated\nmagazines. No wood-engraver had ever reproduced 'a corner in the back\ndrawing-room' or 'the studio mantelpiece' of No. 7; no young lady author\nhad ever commented on 'the unaffected simplicity' with which Mr Pitman\nreceived her in the midst of his 'treasures'. It is an omission I would\ngladly supply, but our business is only with the backward parts and\n'abject rear' of this aesthetic dwelling.\n\nHere was a garden, boasting a dwarf fountain (that never played) in the\ncentre, a few grimy-looking flowers in pots, two or three newly\nplanted trees which the spring of Chelsea visited without noticeable\nconsequence, and two or three statues after the antique, representing\nsatyrs and nymphs in the worst possible style of sculptured art. On one\nside the garden was overshadowed by a pair of crazy studios, usually\nhired out to the more obscure and youthful practitioners of British\nart. Opposite these another lofty out-building, somewhat more carefully\nfinished, and boasting of a communication with the house and a private\ndoor on the back lane, enshrined the multifarious industry of Mr Pitman.\nAll day, it is true, he was engaged in the work of education at a\nseminary for young ladies; but the evenings at least were his own, and\nthese he would prolong far into the night, now dashing off 'A landscape\nwith waterfall' in oil, now a volunteer bust ('in marble', as he would\ngently but proudly observe) of some public character, now stooping\nhis chisel to a mere 'nymph' for a gasbracket on a stair, sir', or a\nlife-size 'Infant Samuel' for a religious nursery. Mr Pitman had studied\nin Paris, and he had studied in Rome, supplied with funds by a fond\nparent who went subsequently bankrupt in consequence of a fall in\ncorsets; and though he was never thought to have the smallest modicum\nof talent, it was at one time supposed that he had learned his business.\nEighteen years of what is called 'tuition' had relieved him of the\ndangerous knowledge. His artist lodgers would sometimes reason with him;\nthey would point out to him how impossible it was to paint by gaslight,\nor to sculpture life-sized nymphs without a model.\n\n'I know that,' he would reply. 'No one in Norfolk Street knows it\nbetter; and if I were rich I should certainly employ the best models\nin London; but, being poor, I have taught myself to do without them. An\noccasional model would only disturb my ideal conception of the figure,\nand be a positive impediment in my career. As for painting by an\nartificial light,' he would continue, 'that is simply a knack I have\nfound it necessary to acquire, my days being engrossed in the work of\ntuition.'\n\nAt the moment when we must present him to our readers, Pitman was in his\nstudio alone, by the dying light of the October day. He sat (sure enough\nwith 'unaffected simplicity') in a Windsor chair, his low-crowned black\nfelt hat by his side; a dark, weak, harmless, pathetic little man, clad\nin the hue of mourning, his coat longer than is usual with the laity,\nhis neck enclosed in a collar without a parting, his neckcloth pale in\nhue and simply tied; the whole outward man, except for a pointed beard,\ntentatively clerical. There was a thinning on the top of Pitman's head,\nthere were silver hairs at Pitman's temple. Poor gentleman, he was no\nlonger young; and years, and poverty, and humble ambition thwarted, make\na cheerless lot.\n\nIn front of him, in the corner by the door, there stood a portly barrel;\nand let him turn them where he might, it was always to the barrel that\nhis eyes and his thoughts returned.\n\n'Should I open it? Should I return it? Should I communicate with Mr\nSernitopolis at once?' he wondered. 'No,' he concluded finally, 'nothing\nwithout Mr Finsbury's advice.' And he arose and produced a shabby\nleathern desk. It opened without the formality of unlocking, and\ndisplayed the thick cream-coloured notepaper on which Mr Pitman was\nin the habit of communicating with the proprietors of schools and the\nparents of his pupils. He placed the desk on the table by the window,\nand taking a saucer of Indian ink from the chimney-piece, laboriously\ncomposed the following letter:\n\n'My dear Mr Finsbury,' it ran, 'would it be presuming on your kindness\nif I asked you to pay me a visit here this evening? It is in no trifling\nmatter that I invoke your valuable assistance, for need I say more than\nit concerns the welfare of Mr Semitopolis's statue of Hercules? I write\nyou in great agitation of mind; for I have made all enquiries, and\ngreatly fear that this work of ancient art has been mislaid. I labour\nbesides under another perplexity, not unconnected with the first. Pray\nexcuse the inelegance of this scrawl, and believe me yours in haste,\nWilliam D. Pitman.'\n\nArmed with this he set forth and rang the bell of No. 233 King's Road,\nthe private residence of Michael Finsbury. He had met the lawyer at a\ntime of great public excitement in Chelsea; Michael, who had a sense of\nhumour and a great deal of careless kindness in his nature, followed\nthe acquaintance up, and, having come to laugh, remained to drop into\na contemptuous kind of friendship. By this time, which was four years\nafter the first meeting, Pitman was the lawyer's dog.\n\n'No,' said the elderly housekeeper, who opened the door in person, 'Mr\nMichael's not in yet. But ye're looking terribly poorly, Mr Pitman. Take\na glass of sherry, sir, to cheer ye up.'\n\n'No, I thank you, ma'am,' replied the artist. 'It is very good in you,\nbut I scarcely feel in sufficient spirits for sherry. Just give Mr\nFinsbury this note, and ask him to look round--to the door in the lane,\nyou will please tell him; I shall be in the studio all evening.'\n\nAnd he turned again into the street and walked slowly homeward. A\nhairdresser's window caught his attention, and he stared long and\nearnestly at the proud, high--born, waxen lady in evening dress, who\ncirculated in the centre of the show. The artist woke in him, in spite\nof his troubles.\n\n'It is all very well to run down the men who make these things,'\nhe cried, 'but there's a something--there's a haughty, indefinable\nsomething about that figure. It's what I tried for in my \"Empress\nEugenie\",' he added, with a sigh.\n\nAnd he went home reflecting on the quality. 'They don't teach you that\ndirect appeal in Paris,' he thought. 'It's British. Come, I am going to\nsleep, I must wake up, I must aim higher--aim higher,' cried the little\nartist to himself. All through his tea and afterward, as he was giving\nhis eldest boy a lesson on the fiddle, his mind dwelt no longer on his\ntroubles, but he was rapt into the better land; and no sooner was he at\nliberty than he hastened with positive exhilaration to his studio.\n\nNot even the sight of the barrel could entirely cast him down. He flung\nhimself with rising zest into his work--a bust of Mr Gladstone from a\nphotograph; turned (with extraordinary success) the difficulty of\nthe back of the head, for which he had no documents beyond a hazy\nrecollection of a public meeting; delighted himself by his treatment\nof the collar; and was only recalled to the cares of life by Michael\nFinsbury's rattle at the door.\n\n'Well, what's wrong?' said Michael, advancing to the grate, where,\nknowing his friend's delight in a bright fire, Mr Pitman had not spared\nthe fuel. 'I suppose you have come to grief somehow.'\n\n'There is no expression strong enough,' said the artist. 'Mr\nSemitopolis's statue has not turned up, and I am afraid I shall be\nanswerable for the money; but I think nothing of that--what I fear, my\ndear Mr Finsbury, what I fear--alas that I should have to say it!\nis exposure. The Hercules was to be smuggled out of Italy; a thing\npositively wrong, a thing of which a man of my principles and in my\nresponsible position should have taken (as I now see too late) no part\nwhatever.'\n\n'This sounds like very serious work,' said the lawyer. 'It will require\na great deal of drink, Pitman.'\n\n'I took the liberty of--in short, of being prepared for you,' replied\nthe artist, pointing to a kettle, a bottle of gin, a lemon, and glasses.\nMichael mixed himself a grog, and offered the artist a cigar.\n\n'No, thank you,' said Pitman. 'I used occasionally to be rather partial\nto it, but the smell is so disagreeable about the clothes.'\n\n'All right,' said the lawyer. 'I am comfortable now. Unfold your tale.'\n\nAt some length Pitman set forth his sorrows. He had gone today to\nWaterloo, expecting to receive the colossal Hercules, and he had\nreceived instead a barrel not big enough to hold Discobolus; yet\nthe barrel was addressed in the hand (with which he was perfectly\nacquainted) of his Roman correspondent. What was stranger still, a case\nhad arrived by the same train, large enough and heavy enough to\ncontain the Hercules; and this case had been taken to an address now\nundiscoverable. 'The vanman (I regret to say it) had been drinking, and\nhis language was such as I could never bring myself to repeat.\n\nHe was at once discharged by the superintendent of the line, who behaved\nmost properly throughout, and is to make enquiries at Southampton.\nIn the meanwhile, what was I to do? I left my address and brought the\nbarrel home; but, remembering an old adage, I determined not to open it\nexcept in the presence of my lawyer.'\n\n'Is that all?' asked Michael. 'I don't see any cause to worry. The\nHercules has stuck upon the road. It will drop in tomorrow or the day\nafter; and as for the barrel, depend upon it, it's a testimonial from\none of your young ladies, and probably contains oysters.'\n\n'O, don't speak so loud!' cried the little artist. 'It would cost me my\nplace if I were heard to speak lightly of the young ladies; and besides,\nwhy oysters from Italy? and why should they come to me addressed in\nSignor Ricardi's hand?'\n\n'Well, let's have a look at it,' said Michael. 'Let's roll it forward to\nthe light.'\n\nThe two men rolled the barrel from the corner, and stood it on end\nbefore the fire.\n\n'It's heavy enough to be oysters,' remarked Michael judiciously.\n\n'Shall we open it at once?' enquired the artist, who had grown decidedly\ncheerful under the combined effects of company and gin; and without\nwaiting for a reply, he began to strip as if for a prize-fight, tossed\nhis clerical collar in the wastepaper basket, hung his clerical coat\nupon a nail, and with a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other,\nstruck the first blow of the evening.\n\n'That's the style, William Dent' cried Michael. 'There's fire for--your\nmoney! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young ladies--a sort\nof Cleopatra business. Have a care and don't stave in Cleopatra's head.'\n\nBut the sight of Pitman's alacrity was infectious. The lawyer could\nsit still no longer. Tossing his cigar into the fire, he snatched the\ninstrument from the unwilling hands of the artist, and fell to himself.\nSoon the sweat stood in beads upon his large, fair brow; his stylish\ntrousers were defaced with iron rust, and the state of his chisel\ntestified to misdirected energies.\n\nA cask is not an easy thing to open, even when you set about it in the\nright way; when you set about it wrongly, the whole structure must be\nresolved into its elements. Such was the course pursued alike by the\nartist and the lawyer. Presently the last hoop had been removed--a\ncouple of smart blows tumbled the staves upon the ground--and what\nhad once been a barrel was no more than a confused heap of broken and\ndistorted boards.\n\nIn the midst of these, a certain dismal something, swathed in blankets,\nremained for an instant upright, and then toppled to one side and\nheavily collapsed before the fire. Even as the thing subsided, an\neye-glass tingled to the floor and rolled toward the screaming Pitman.\n\n'Hold your tongue!' said Michael. He dashed to the house door and locked\nit; then, with a pale face and bitten lip, he drew near, pulled aside\na corner of the swathing blanket, and recoiled, shuddering. There was a\nlong silence in the studio.\n\n'Now tell me,' said Michael, in a low voice: 'Had you any hand in it?'\nand he pointed to the body.\n\nThe little artist could only utter broken and disjointed sounds.\n\nMichael poured some gin into a glass. 'Drink that,' he said. 'Don't be\nafraid of me. I'm your friend through thick and thin.'\n\nPitman put the liquor down untasted.\n\n'I swear before God,' he said, 'this is another mystery to me. In my\nworst fears I never dreamed of such a thing. I would not lay a finger on\na sucking infant.'\n\n'That's all square,' said Michael, with a sigh of huge relief. 'I\nbelieve you, old boy.' And he shook the artist warmly by the hand. 'I\nthought for a moment,' he added with rather a ghastly smile, 'I thought\nfor a moment you might have made away with Mr Semitopolis.'\n\n'It would make no difference if I had,' groaned Pitman. 'All is at an\nend for me. There's the writing on the wall.'\n\n'To begin with,' said Michael, 'let's get him out of sight; for to be\nquite plain with you, Pitman, I don't like your friend's appearance.'\nAnd with that the lawyer shuddered. 'Where can we put it?'\n\n'You might put it in the closet there--if you could bear to touch it,'\nanswered the artist.\n\n'Somebody has to do it, Pitman,' returned the lawyer; 'and it seems as\nif it had to be me. You go over to the table, turn your back, and mix me\na grog; that's a fair division of labour.'\n\nAbout ninety seconds later the closet-door was heard to shut.\n\n'There,' observed Michael, 'that's more homelike. You can turn now, my\npallid Pitman. Is this the grog?' he ran on. 'Heaven forgive you, it's a\nlemonade.'\n\n'But, O, Finsbury, what are we to do with it?' walled the artist, laying\na clutching hand upon the lawyer's arm.\n\n'Do with it?' repeated Michael. 'Bury it in one of your flowerbeds, and\nerect one of your own statues for a monument. I tell you we should look\ndevilish romantic shovelling out the sod by the moon's pale ray. Here,\nput some gin in this.'\n\n'I beg of you, Mr Finsbury, do not trifle with my misery,' cried Pitman.\n'You see before you a man who has been all his life--I do not hesitate\nto say it--imminently respectable. Even in this solemn hour I can lay my\nhand upon my heart without a blush. Except on the really trifling point\nof the smuggling of the Hercules (and even of that I now humbly repent),\nmy life has been entirely fit for publication. I never feared the\nlight,' cried the little man; 'and now--now--!'\n\n'Cheer up, old boy,' said Michael. 'I assure you we should count this\nlittle contretemps a trifle at the office; it's the sort of thing that\nmay occur to any one; and if you're perfectly sure you had no hand in\nit--'\n\n'What language am I to find--' began Pitman.\n\n'O, I'll do that part of it,' interrupted Michael, 'you have no\nexperience.' But the point is this: If--or rather since--you know\nnothing of the crime, since the--the party in the closet--is\nneither your father, nor your brother, nor your creditor, nor your\nmother-in-law, nor what they call an injured husband--'\n\n'O, my dear sir!' interjected Pitman, horrified.\n\n'Since, in short,' continued the lawyer, 'you had no possible interest\nin the crime, we have a perfectly free field before us and a safe game\nto play. Indeed, the problem is really entertaining; it is one I have\nlong contemplated in the light of an A. B. case; here it is at last\nunder my hand in specie; and I mean to pull you through. Do you hear\nthat?--I mean to pull you through. Let me see: it's a long time since I\nhave had what I call a genuine holiday; I'll send an excuse tomorrow to\nthe office. We had best be lively,' he added significantly; 'for we must\nnot spoil the market for the other man.'\n\n'What do you mean?' enquired Pitman. 'What other man? The inspector of\npolice?'\n\n'Damn the inspector of police!' remarked his companion. 'If you won't\ntake the short cut and bury this in your back garden, we must find some\none who will bury it in his. We must place the affair, in short, in the\nhands of some one with fewer scruples and more resources.'\n\n'A private detective, perhaps?' suggested Pitman.\n\n'There are times when you fill me with pity,' observed the lawyer. 'By\nthe way, Pitman,' he added in another key, 'I have always regretted that\nyou have no piano in this den of yours. Even if you don't play yourself,\nyour friends might like to entertain themselves with a little music\nwhile you were mudding.'\n\n'I shall get one at once if you like,' said Pitman nervously, anxious to\nplease. 'I play the fiddle a little as it is.'\n\n'I know you do,' said Michael; 'but what's the fiddle--above all as you\nplay it? What you want is polyphonic music. And I'll tell you what it\nis--since it's too late for you to buy a piano I'll give you mine.'\n\n'Thank you,' said the artist blankly. 'You will give me yours? I am sure\nit's very good in you.'\n\n'Yes, I'll give you mine,' continued Michael, 'for the inspector of\npolice to play on while his men are digging up your back garden.' Pitman\nstared at him in pained amazement.\n\n'No, I'm not insane,' Michael went on. 'I'm playful, but quite coherent.\nSee here, Pitman: follow me one half minute. I mean to profit by the\nrefreshing fact that we are really and truly innocent; nothing but the\npresence of the--you know what--connects us with the crime; once let us\nget rid of it, no matter how, and there is no possible clue to trace\nus by. Well, I give you my piano; we'll bring it round this very night.\nTomorrow we rip the fittings out, deposit the--our friend--inside, plump\nthe whole on a cart, and carry it to the chambers of a young gentleman\nwhom I know by sight.'\n\n'Whom do you know by sight?' repeated Pitman.\n\n'And what is more to the purpose,' continued Michael, 'whose chambers I\nknow better than he does himself. A friend of mine--I call him my friend\nfor brevity; he is now, I understand, in Demerara and (most likely)\nin gaol--was the previous occupant. I defended him, and I got him off\ntoo--all saved but honour; his assets were nil, but he gave me what he\nhad, poor gentleman, and along with the rest--the key of his chambers.\nIt's there that I propose to leave the piano and, shall we say,\nCleopatra?'\n\n'It seems very wild,' said Pitman. 'And what will become of the poor\nyoung gentleman whom you know by sight?'\n\n'It will do him good,'--said Michael cheerily. 'Just what he wants to\nsteady him.'\n\n'But, my dear sir, he might be involved in a charge of--a charge of\nmurder,' gulped the artist.\n\n'Well, he'll be just where we are,' returned the lawyer. 'He's\ninnocent, you see. What hangs people, my dear Pitman, is the unfortunate\ncircumstance of guilt.'\n\n'But indeed, indeed,' pleaded Pitman, 'the whole scheme appears to me so\nwild. Would it not be safer, after all, just to send for the police?'\n\n'And make a scandal?' enquired Michael. '\"The Chelsea Mystery; alleged\ninnocence of Pitman\"? How would that do at the Seminary?'\n\n'It would imply my discharge,' admitted the drawing--master. 'I cannot\ndeny that.'\n\n'And besides,' said Michael, 'I am not going to embark in such a\nbusiness and have no fun for my money.'\n\n'O my dear sir, is that a proper spirit?' cried Pitman.\n\n'O, I only said that to cheer you up,' said the unabashed Michael.\n'Nothing like a little judicious levity. But it's quite needless to\ndiscuss. If you mean to follow my advice, come on, and let us get the\npiano at once. If you don't, just drop me the word, and I'll leave you\nto deal with the whole thing according to your better judgement.'\n\n'You know perfectly well that I depend on you entirely,' returned\nPitman. 'But O, what a night is before me with that--horror in my\nstudio! How am I to think of it on my pillow?'\n\n'Well, you know, my piano will be there too,' said Michael. 'That'll\nraise the average.'\n\nAn hour later a cart came up the lane, and the lawyer's piano--a\nmomentous Broadwood grand--was deposited in Mr Pitman's studio.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. In Which Michael Finsbury Enjoys a Holiday\n\nPunctually at eight o'clock next morning the lawyer rattled (according\nto previous appointment) on the studio door. He found the artist sadly\naltered for the worse--bleached, bloodshot, and chalky--a man upon\nwires, the tail of his haggard eye still wandering to the closet. Nor\nwas the professor of drawing less inclined to wonder at his friend.\nMichael was usually attired in the height of fashion, with a certain\nmercantile brilliancy best described perhaps as stylish; nor could\nanything be said against him, as a rule, but that he looked a trifle\ntoo like a wedding guest to be quite a gentleman. Today he had fallen\naltogether from these heights. He wore a flannel shirt of washed-out\nshepherd's tartan, and a suit of reddish tweeds, of the colour known to\ntailors as 'heather mixture'; his neckcloth was black, and tied loosely\nin a sailor's knot; a rusty ulster partly concealed these advantages;\nand his feet were shod with rough walking boots. His hat was an old soft\nfelt, which he removed with a flourish as he entered.\n\n'Here I am, William Dent!' he cried, and drawing from his pocket\ntwo little wisps of reddish hair, he held them to his cheeks like\nsidewhiskers and danced about the studio with the filmy graces of a\nballet-girl.\n\nPitman laughed sadly. 'I should never have known you,' said he.\n\n'Nor were you intended to,' returned Michael, replacing his false\nwhiskers in his pocket. 'Now we must overhaul you and your wardrobe, and\ndisguise you up to the nines.'\n\n'Disguise!' cried the artist. 'Must I indeed disguise myself. Has it\ncome to that?'\n\n'My dear creature,' returned his companion, 'disguise is the spice of\nlife. What is life, passionately exclaimed a French philosopher, without\nthe pleasures of disguise? I don't say it's always good taste, and\nI know it's unprofessional; but what's the odds, downhearted\ndrawing-master? It has to be. We have to leave a false impression on\nthe minds of many persons, and in particular on the mind of Mr Gideon\nForsyth--the young gentleman I know by sight--if he should have the bad\ntaste to be at home.'\n\n'If he be at home?' faltered the artist. 'That would be the end of all.'\n\n'Won't matter a d--,' returned Michael airily. 'Let me see your clothes,\nand I'll make a new man of you in a jiffy.'\n\nIn the bedroom, to which he was at once conducted, Michael examined\nPitman's poor and scanty wardrobe with a humorous eye, picked out a\nshort jacket of black alpaca, and presently added to that a pair of\nsummer trousers which somehow took his fancy as incongruous. Then, with\nthe garments in his hand, he scrutinized the artist closely.\n\n'I don't like that clerical collar,' he remarked. 'Have you nothing\nelse?'\n\nThe professor of drawing pondered for a moment, and then brightened;\n'I have a pair of low-necked shirts,' he said, 'that I used to wear in\nParis as a student. They are rather loud.'\n\n'The very thing!' ejaculated Michael. 'You'll look perfectly beastly.\nHere are spats, too,' he continued, drawing forth a pair of those\noffensive little gaiters. 'Must have spats! And now you jump into these,\nand whistle a tune at the window for (say) three-quarters of an hour.\nAfter that you can rejoin me on the field of glory.'\n\nSo saying, Michael returned to the studio. It was the morning of the\neasterly gale; the wind blew shrilly among the statues in the garden,\nand drove the rain upon the skylight in the studio ceiling; and at about\nthe same moment of the time when Morris attacked the hundredth version\nof his uncle's signature in Bloomsbury, Michael, in Chelsea, began to\nrip the wires out of the Broadwood grand.\n\nThree-quarters of an hour later Pitman was admitted, to find the\ncloset-door standing open, the closet untenanted, and the piano\ndiscreetly shut.\n\n'It's a remarkably heavy instrument,' observed Michael, and turned\nto consider his friend's disguise. 'You must shave off that beard of\nyours,' he said.\n\n'My beard!' cried Pitman. 'I cannot shave my beard. I cannot tamper with\nmy appearance--my principals would object. They hold very strong views\nas to the appearance of the professors--young ladies are considered so\nromantic. My beard was regarded as quite a feature when I went about the\nplace. It was regarded,' said the artist, with rising colour, 'it was\nregarded as unbecoming.'\n\n'You can let it grow again,' returned Michael, 'and then you'll be so\nprecious ugly that they'll raise your salary.'\n\n'But I don't want to be ugly,' cried the artist.\n\n'Don't be an ass,' said Michael, who hated beards and was delighted to\ndestroy one. 'Off with it like a man!'\n\n'Of course, if you insist,' said Pitman; and then he sighed, fetched\nsome hot water from the kitchen, and setting a glass upon his easel,\nfirst clipped his beard with scissors and then shaved his chin. He\ncould not conceal from himself, as he regarded the result, that his last\nclaims to manhood had been sacrificed, but Michael seemed delighted.\n\n'A new man, I declare!' he cried. 'When I give you the windowglass\nspectacles I have in my pocket, you'll be the beau-ideal of a French\ncommercial traveller.'\n\nPitman did not reply, but continued to gaze disconsolately on his image\nin the glass.\n\n'Do you know,' asked Michael, 'what the Governor of South Carolina said\nto the Governor of North Carolina? \"It's a long time between drinks,\"\nobserved that powerful thinker; and if you will put your hand into the\ntop left-hand pocket of my ulster, I have an impression you will find a\nflask of brandy. Thank you, Pitman,' he added, as he filled out a glass\nfor each. 'Now you will give me news of this.'\n\nThe artist reached out his hand for the water-jug, but Michael arrested\nthe movement.\n\n'Not if you went upon your knees!' he cried. 'This is the finest liqueur\nbrandy in Great Britain.'\n\nPitman put his lips to it, set it down again, and sighed.\n\n'Well, I must say you're the poorest companion for a holiday!' cried\nMichael. 'If that's all you know of brandy, you shall have no more of\nit; and while I finish the flask, you may as well begin business. Come\nto think of it,' he broke off, 'I have made an abominable error: you\nshould have ordered the cart before you were disguised. Why, Pitman,\nwhat the devil's the use of you? why couldn't you have reminded me of\nthat?'\n\n'I never even knew there was a cart to be ordered,' said the artist.\n'But I can take off the disguise again,' he suggested eagerly.\n\n'You would find it rather a bother to put on your beard,' observed the\nlawyer. 'No, it's a false step; the sort of thing that hangs people,' he\ncontinued, with eminent cheerfulness, as he sipped his brandy; 'and\nit can't be retraced now. Off to the mews with you, make all the\narrangements; they're to take the piano from here, cart it to Victoria,\nand dispatch it thence by rail to Cannon Street, to lie till called for\nin the name of Fortune du Boisgobey.'\n\n'Isn't that rather an awkward name?' pleaded Pitman.\n\n'Awkward?' cried Michael scornfully. 'It would hang us both! Brown is\nboth safer and easier to pronounce. Call it Brown.'\n\n'I wish,' said Pitman, 'for my sake, I wish you wouldn't talk so much of\nhanging.'\n\n'Talking about it's nothing, my boy!' returned Michael. 'But take your\nhat and be off, and mind and pay everything beforehand.'\n\nLeft to himself, the lawyer turned his attention for some time\nexclusively to the liqueur brandy, and his spirits, which had been\npretty fair all morning, now prodigiously rose. He proceeded to adjust\nhis whiskers finally before the glass. 'Devilish rich,' he remarked, as\nhe contemplated his reflection. 'I look like a purser's mate.' And at\nthat moment the window-glass spectacles (which he had hitherto destined\nfor Pitman) flashed into his mind; he put them on, and fell in love with\nthe effect. 'Just what I required,' he said. 'I wonder what I look like\nnow? A humorous novelist, I should think,' and he began to practise\ndivers characters of walk, naming them to himself as--he proceeded.\n'Walk of a humorous novelist--but that would require an umbrella. Walk\nof a purser's mate. Walk of an Australian colonist revisiting the scenes\nof childhood. Walk of Sepoy colonel, ditto, ditto. And in the midst\nof the Sepoy colonel (which was an excellent assumption, although\ninconsistent with the style of his make-up), his eye lighted on the\npiano. This instrument was made to lock both at the top and at the\nkeyboard, but the key of the latter had been mislaid. Michael opened\nit and ran his fingers over the dumb keys. 'Fine instrument--full, rich\ntone,' he observed, and he drew in a seat.\n\nWhen Mr Pitman returned to the studio, he was appalled to observe his\nguide, philosopher, and friend performing miracles of execution on the\nsilent grand.\n\n'Heaven help me!' thought the little man, 'I fear he has been drinking!\nMr Finsbury,' he said aloud; and Michael, without rising, turned upon\nhim a countenance somewhat flushed, encircled with the bush of the red\nwhiskers, and bestridden by the spectacles. 'Capriccio in B-flat on the\ndeparture of a friend,' said he, continuing his noiseless evolutions.\n\nIndignation awoke in the mind of Pitman. 'Those spectacles were to be\nmine,' he cried. 'They are an essential part of my disguise.'\n\n'I am going to wear them myself,' replied Michael; and he added, with\nsome show of truth, 'There would be a devil of a lot of suspicion\naroused if we both wore spectacles.'\n\n'O, well,' said the assenting Pitman, 'I rather counted on them; but of\ncourse, if you insist. And at any rate, here is the cart at the door.'\n\nWhile the men were at work, Michael concealed himself in the closet\namong the debris of the barrel and the wires of the piano; and as soon\nas the coast was clear the pair sallied forth by the lane, jumped into\na hansom in the King's Road, and were driven rapidly toward town. It\nwas still cold and raw and boisterous; the rain beat strongly in their\nfaces, but Michael refused to have the glass let down; he had now\nsuddenly donned the character of cicerone, and pointed out and lucidly\ncommented on the sights of London, as they drove. 'My dear fellow,' he\nsaid, 'you don't seem to know anything of your native city. Suppose we\nvisited the Tower? No? Well, perhaps it's a trifle out of our way.\nBut, anyway--Here, cabby, drive round by Trafalgar Square!' And on that\nhistoric battlefield he insisted on drawing up, while he criticized the\nstatues and gave the artist many curious details (quite new to history)\nof the lives of the celebrated men they represented.\n\nIt would be difficult to express what Pitman suffered in the cab: cold,\nwet, terror in the capital degree, a grounded distrust of the commander\nunder whom he served, a sense of imprudency in the matter of the\nlow-necked shirt, a bitter sense of the decline and fall involved in the\ndeprivation of his beard, all these were among the ingredients of the\nbowl. To reach the restaurant, for which they were deviously steering,\nwas the first relief. To hear Michael bespeak a private room was a\nsecond and a still greater. Nor, as they mounted the stair under the\nguidance of an unintelligible alien, did he fail to note with gratitude\nthe fewness of the persons present, or the still more cheering fact that\nthe greater part of these were exiles from the land of France. It was\nthus a blessed thought that none of them would be connected with the\nSeminary; for even the French professor, though admittedly a Papist, he\ncould scarce imagine frequenting so rakish an establishment.\n\nThe alien introduced them into a small bare room with a single table,\na sofa, and a dwarfish fire; and Michael called promptly for more coals\nand a couple of brandies and sodas.\n\n'O, no,' said Pitman, 'surely not--no more to drink.'\n\n'I don't know what you would be at,' said Michael plaintively. 'It's\npositively necessary to do something; and one shouldn't smoke before\nmeals. I thought that was understood. You seem to have no idea\nof hygiene.' And he compared his watch with the clock upon the\nchimney-piece.\n\nPitman fell into bitter musing; here he was, ridiculously shorn,\nabsurdly disguised, in the company of a drunken man in spectacles, and\nwaiting for a champagne luncheon in a restaurant painfully foreign. What\nwould his principals think, if they could see him? What if they knew his\ntragic and deceitful errand?\n\nFrom these reflections he was aroused by the entrance of the alien with\nthe brandies and sodas. Michael took one and bade the waiter pass the\nother to his friend.\n\nPitman waved it from him with his hand. 'Don't let me lose all\nself-respect,' he said.\n\n'Anything to oblige a friend,' returned Michael. 'But I'm not going to\ndrink alone. Here,' he added to the waiter, 'you take it.' And, then,\ntouching glasses, 'The health of Mr Gideon Forsyth,' said he.\n\n'Meestare Gidden Borsye,' replied the waiter, and he tossed off the\nliquor in four gulps.\n\n'Have another?' said Michael, with undisguised interest. 'I never saw a\nman drink faster. It restores one's confidence in the human race.\n\nBut the waiter excused himself politely, and, assisted by some one from\nwithout, began to bring in lunch.\n\nMichael made an excellent meal, which he washed down with a bottle of\nHeidsieck's dry monopole. As for the artist, he was far too uneasy to\neat, and his companion flatly refused to let him share in the champagne\nunless he did.\n\n'One of us must stay sober,' remarked the lawyer, 'and I won't give you\nchampagne on the strength of a leg of grouse. I have to be cautious,' he\nadded confidentially. 'One drunken man, excellent business--two drunken\nmen, all my eye.'\n\nOn the production of coffee and departure of the waiter, Michael might\nhave been observed to make portentous efforts after gravity of mien.\nHe looked his friend in the face (one eye perhaps a trifle off), and\naddressed him thickly but severely.\n\n'Enough of this fooling,' was his not inappropriate exordium. 'To\nbusiness. Mark me closely. I am an Australian. My name is John Dickson,\nthough you mightn't think it from my unassuming appearance. You will be\nrelieved to hear that I am rich, sir, very rich. You can't go into this\nsort of thing too thoroughly, Pitman; the whole secret is preparation,\nand I can get up my biography from the beginning, and I could tell it\nyou now, only I have forgotten it.'\n\n'Perhaps I'm stupid--' began Pitman.\n\n'That's it!' cried Michael. 'Very stupid; but rich too--richer than I\nam. I thought you would enjoy it, Pitman, so I've arranged that you were\nto be literally wallowing in wealth. But then, on the other hand, you're\nonly an American, and a maker of india-rubber overshoes at that. And the\nworst of it is--why should I conceal it from you?--the worst of it\nis that you're called Ezra Thomas. Now,' said Michael, with a really\nappalling seriousness of manner, 'tell me who we are.'\n\nThe unfortunate little man was cross-examined till he knew these facts\nby heart.\n\n'There!' cried the lawyer. 'Our plans are laid. Thoroughly\nconsistent--that's the great thing.'\n\n'But I don't understand,' objected Pitman.\n\n'O, you'll understand right enough when it comes to the point,' said\nMichael, rising.\n\n'There doesn't seem any story to it,' said the artist.\n\n'We can invent one as we go along,' returned the lawyer.\n\n'But I can't invent,' protested Pitman. 'I never could invent in all my\nlife.'\n\n'You'll find you'll have to, my boy,' was Michael's easy comment, and he\nbegan calling for the waiter, with whom he at once resumed a sparkling\nconversation.\n\nIt was a downcast little man that followed him. 'Of course he is very\nclever, but can I trust him in such a state?' he asked himself. And when\nthey were once more in a hansom, he took heart of grace.\n\n'Don't you think,' he faltered, 'it would be wiser, considering all\nthings, to put this business off?'\n\n'Put off till tomorrow what can be done today?' cried Michael, with\nindignation. 'Never heard of such a thing! Cheer up, it's all right, go\nin and win--there's a lion-hearted Pitman!'\n\nAt Cannon Street they enquired for Mr Brown's piano, which had duly\narrived, drove thence to a neighbouring mews, where they contracted\nfor a cart, and while that was being got ready, took shelter in the\nharness-room beside the stove. Here the lawyer presently toppled against\nthe wall and fell into a gentle slumber; so that Pitman found himself\nlaunched on his own resources in the midst of several staring loafers,\nsuch as love to spend unprofitable days about a stable. 'Rough day,\nsir,' observed one. 'Do you go far?'\n\n'Yes, it's a--rather a rough day,' said the artist; and then, feeling\nthat he must change the conversation, 'My friend is an Australian; he is\nvery impulsive,' he added.\n\n'An Australian?' said another. 'I've a brother myself in Melbourne. Does\nyour friend come from that way at all?'\n\n'No, not exactly,' replied the artist, whose ideas of the geography of\nNew Holland were a little scattered. 'He lives immensely far inland, and\nis very rich.'\n\nThe loafers gazed with great respect upon the slumbering colonist.\n\n'Well,' remarked the second speaker, 'it's a mighty big place, is\nAustralia. Do you come from thereaway too?'\n\n'No, I do not,' said Pitman. 'I do not, and I don't want to,' he added\nirritably. And then, feeling some diversion needful, he fell upon\nMichael and shook him up.\n\n'Hullo,' said the lawyer, 'what's wrong?'\n\n'The cart is nearly ready,' said Pitman sternly. 'I will not allow you\nto sleep.'\n\n'All right--no offence, old man,' replied Michael, yawning. 'A little\nsleep never did anybody any harm; I feel comparatively sober now. But\nwhat's all the hurry?' he added, looking round him glassily. 'I don't\nsee the cart, and I've forgotten where we left the piano.'\n\nWhat more the lawyer might have said, in the confidence of the moment,\nis with Pitman a matter of tremulous conjecture to this day; but by the\nmost blessed circumstance the cart was then announced, and Michael must\nbend the forces of his mind to the more difficult task of rising.\n\n'Of course you'll drive,' he remarked to his companion, as he clambered\non the vehicle.\n\n'I drive!' cried Pitman. 'I never did such a thing in my life. I cannot\ndrive.'\n\n'Very well,' responded Michael with entire composure, 'neither can I\nsee. But just as you like. Anything to oblige a friend.'\n\nA glimpse of the ostler's darkening countenance decided Pitman. 'All\nright,' he said desperately, 'you drive. I'll tell you where to go.'\n\nOn Michael in the character of charioteer (since this is not intended\nto be a novel of adventure) it would be superfluous to dwell at length.\nPitman, as he sat holding on and gasping counsels, sole witness of this\nsingular feat, knew not whether most to admire the driver's valour or\nhis undeserved good fortune. But the latter at least prevailed, the\ncart reached Cannon Street without disaster; and Mr Brown's piano was\nspeedily and cleverly got on board.\n\n'Well, sir,' said the leading porter, smiling as he mentally reckoned up\na handful of loose silver, 'that's a mortal heavy piano.'\n\n'It's the richness of the tone,' returned Michael, as he drove away.\n\nIt was but a little distance in the rain, which now fell thick and\nquiet, to the neighbourhood of Mr Gideon Forsyth's chambers in the\nTemple. There, in a deserted by-street, Michael drew up the horses and\ngave them in charge to a blighted shoe-black; and the pair descending\nfrom the cart, whereon they had figured so incongruously, set forth\non foot for the decisive scene of their adventure. For the first time\nMichael displayed a shadow of uneasiness.\n\n'Are my whiskers right?' he asked. 'It would be the devil and all if I\nwas spotted.'\n\n'They are perfectly in their place,' returned Pitman, with scant\nattention. 'But is my disguise equally effective? There is nothing more\nlikely than that I should meet some of my patrons.'\n\n'O, nobody could tell you without your beard,' said Michael. 'All you\nhave to do is to remember to speak slow; you speak through your nose\nalready.'\n\n'I only hope the young man won't be at home,' sighed Pitman.\n\n'And I only hope he'll be alone,' returned the lawyer. 'It will save a\nprecious sight of manoeuvring.'\n\nAnd sure enough, when they had knocked at the door, Gideon admitted them\nin person to a room, warmed by a moderate fire, framed nearly to the\nroof in works connected with the bench of British Themis, and offering,\nexcept in one particular, eloquent testimony to the legal zeal of the\nproprietor. The one particular was the chimney-piece, which displayed\na varied assortment of pipes, tobacco, cigar-boxes, and yellow-backed\nFrench novels.\n\n'Mr Forsyth, I believe?' It was Michael who thus opened the engagement.\n'We have come to trouble you with a piece of business. I fear it's\nscarcely professional--'\n\n'I am afraid I ought to be instructed through a solicitor,' replied\nGideon.\n\n'Well, well, you shall name your own, and the whole affair can be put\non a more regular footing tomorrow,' replied Michael, taking a chair\nand motioning Pitman to do the same. 'But you see we didn't know any\nsolicitors; we did happen to know of you, and time presses.'\n\n'May I enquire, gentlemen,' asked Gideon, 'to whom it was I am indebted\nfor a recommendation?'\n\n'You may enquire,' returned the lawyer, with a foolish laugh; 'but I was\ninvited not to tell you--till the thing was done.'\n\n'My uncle, no doubt,' was the barrister's conclusion.\n\n'My name is John Dickson,' continued Michael; 'a pretty well-known name\nin Ballarat; and my friend here is Mr Ezra Thomas, of the United States\nof America, a wealthy manufacturer of india-rubber overshoes.'\n\n'Stop one moment till I make a note of that,' said Gideon; any one might\nhave supposed he was an old practitioner.\n\n'Perhaps you wouldn't mind my smoking a cigar?' asked Michael. He had\npulled himself together for the entrance; now again there began to\nsettle on his mind clouds of irresponsible humour and incipient slumber;\nand he hoped (as so many have hoped in the like case) that a cigar would\nclear him.\n\n'Oh, certainly,' cried Gideon blandly. 'Try one of mine; I can\nconfidently recommend them.' And he handed the box to his client.\n\n'In case I don't make myself perfectly clear,' observed the Australian,\n'it's perhaps best to tell you candidly that I've been lunching. It's a\nthing that may happen to any one.'\n\n'O, certainly,' replied the affable barrister. 'But please be under no\nsense of hurry. I can give you,' he added, thoughtfully consulting his\nwatch--'yes, I can give you the whole afternoon.'\n\n'The business that brings me here,' resumed the Australian with gusto,\n'is devilish delicate, I can tell you. My friend Mr Thomas, being an\nAmerican of Portuguese extraction, unacquainted with our habits, and a\nwealthy manufacturer of Broadwood pianos--'\n\n'Broadwood pianos?' cried Gideon, with some surprise. 'Dear me, do I\nunderstand Mr Thomas to be a member of the firm?'\n\n'O, pirated Broadwoods,' returned Michael. 'My friend's the American\nBroadwood.'\n\n'But I understood you to say,' objected Gideon, 'I certainly have it\nso in my notes--that your friend was a manufacturer of india--rubber\novershoes.'\n\n'I know it's confusing at first,' said the Australian, with a beaming\nsmile. 'But he--in short, he combines the two professions. And many\nothers besides--many, many, many others,' repeated Mr Dickson, with\ndrunken solemnity. 'Mr Thomas's cotton-mills are one of the sights of\nTallahassee; Mr Thomas's tobacco-mills are the pride of Richmond, Va.;\nin short, he's one of my oldest friends, Mr Forsyth, and I lay his case\nbefore you with emotion.'\n\nThe barrister looked at Mr Thomas and was agreeably prepossessed by his\nopen although nervous countenance, and the simplicity and timidity of\nhis manner. 'What a people are these Americans!' he thought. 'Look at\nthis nervous, weedy, simple little bird in a lownecked shirt, and\nthink of him wielding and directing interests so extended and seemingly\nincongruous! 'But had we not better,' he observed aloud, 'had we not\nperhaps better approach the facts?'\n\n'Man of business, I perceive, sir!' said the Australian. 'Let's approach\nthe facts. It's a breach of promise case.'\n\nThe unhappy artist was so unprepared for this view of his position that\nhe could scarce suppress a cry.\n\n'Dear me,' said Gideon, 'they are apt to be very troublesome. Tell me\neverything about it,' he added kindly; 'if you require my assistance,\nconceal nothing.'\n\n'You tell him,' said Michael, feeling, apparently, that he had done his\nshare. 'My friend will tell you all about it,' he added to Gideon, with\na yawn. 'Excuse my closing my eyes a moment; I've been sitting up with a\nsick friend.'\n\nPitman gazed blankly about the room; rage and despair seethed in his\ninnocent spirit; thoughts of flight, thoughts even of suicide, came and\nwent before him; and still the barrister patiently waited, and still the\nartist groped in vain for any form of words, however insignificant.\n\n'It's a breach of promise case,' he said at last, in a low voice. 'I--I\nam threatened with a breach of promise case.' Here, in desperate quest\nof inspiration, he made a clutch at his beard; his fingers closed upon\nthe unfamiliar smoothness of a shaven chin; and with that, hope and\ncourage (if such expressions could ever have been appropriate in the\ncase of Pitman) conjointly fled. He shook Michael roughly. 'Wake up!'\nhe cried, with genuine irritation in his tones. 'I cannot do it, and you\nknow I can't.'\n\n'You must excuse my friend,' said Michael; 'he's no hand as a narrator\nof stirring incident. The case is simple,' he went on. 'My friend is\na man of very strong passions, and accustomed to a simple, patriarchal\nstyle of life. You see the thing from here: unfortunate visit to Europe,\nfollowed by unfortunate acquaintance with sham foreign count, who has a\nlovely daughter. Mr Thomas was quite carried away; he proposed, he was\naccepted, and he wrote--wrote in a style which I am sure he must\nregret today. If these letters are produced in court, sir, Mr Thomas's\ncharacter is gone.'\n\n'Am I to understand--' began Gideon.\n\n'My dear sir,' said the Australian emphatically, 'it isn't possible to\nunderstand unless you saw them.'\n\n'That is a painful circumstance,' said Gideon; he glanced pityingly in\nthe direction of the culprit, and, observing on his countenance every\nmark of confusion, pityingly withdrew his eyes.\n\n'And that would be nothing,' continued Mr Dickson sternly, 'but I\nwish--I wish from my heart, sir, I could say that Mr Thomas's hands were\nclean. He has no excuse; for he was engaged at the time--and is still\nengaged--to the belle of Constantinople, Ga. My friend's conduct was\nunworthy of the brutes that perish.'\n\n'Ga.?' repeated Gideon enquiringly.\n\n'A contraction in current use,' said Michael. 'Ga. for Georgia, in The\nsame way as Co. for Company.'\n\n'I was aware it was sometimes so written,' returned the barrister, 'but\nnot that it was so pronounced.'\n\n'Fact, I assure you,' said Michael. 'You now see for yourself, sir, that\nif this unhappy person is to be saved, some devilish sharp practice will\nbe needed. There's money, and no desire to spare it. Mr Thomas could\nwrite a cheque tomorrow for a hundred thousand. And, Mr Forsyth,\nthere's better than money. The foreign count--Count Tarnow, he calls\nhimself--was formerly a tobacconist in Bayswater, and passed under\nthe humble but expressive name of Schmidt; his daughter--if she is his\ndaughter--there's another point--make a note of that, Mr Forsyth--his\ndaughter at that time actually served in the shop--and she now proposes\nto marry a man of the eminence of Mr Thomas! Now do you see our game? We\nknow they contemplate a move; and we wish to forestall 'em. Down you\ngo to Hampton Court, where they live, and threaten, or bribe, or both,\nuntil you get the letters; if you can't, God help us, we must go to\ncourt and Thomas must be exposed. I'll be done with him for one,' added\nthe unchivalrous friend.\n\n'There seem some elements of success,' said Gideon. 'Was Schmidt at all\nknown to the police?'\n\n'We hope so,' said Michael. 'We have every ground to think so. Mark\nthe neighbourhood--Bayswater! Doesn't Bayswater occur to you as very\nsuggestive?'\n\nFor perhaps the sixth time during this remarkable interview, Gideon\nwondered if he were not becoming light-headed. 'I suppose it's just\nbecause he has been lunching,' he thought; and then added aloud, 'To\nwhat figure may I go?'\n\n'Perhaps five thousand would be enough for today,' said Michael. 'And\nnow, sir, do not let me detain you any longer; the afternoon wears\non; there are plenty of trains to Hampton Court; and I needn't try to\ndescribe to you the impatience of my friend. Here is a five-pound note\nfor current expenses; and here is the address.' And Michael began to\nwrite, paused, tore up the paper, and put the pieces in his pocket. 'I\nwill dictate,' he said, 'my writing is so uncertain.'\n\nGideon took down the address, 'Count Tarnow, Kurnaul Villa, Hampton\nCourt.' Then he wrote something else on a sheet of paper. 'You said you\nhad not chosen a solicitor,' he said. 'For a case of this sort, here is\nthe best man in London.' And he handed the paper to Michael.\n\n'God bless me!' ejaculated Michael, as he read his own address.\n\n'O, I daresay you have seen his name connected with some rather painful\ncases,' said Gideon. 'But he is himself a perfectly honest man, and his\ncapacity is recognized. And now, gentlemen, it only remains for me to\nask where I shall communicate with you.'\n\n'The Langham, of course,' returned Michael. 'Till tonight.'\n\n'Till tonight,' replied Gideon, smiling. 'I suppose I may knock you up\nat a late hour?'\n\n'Any hour, any hour,' cried the vanishing solicitor.\n\n'Now there's a young fellow with a head upon his shoulders,' he said to\nPitman, as soon as they were in the street.\n\nPitman was indistinctly heard to murmur, 'Perfect fool.'\n\n'Not a bit of him,' returned Michael. 'He knows who's the best solicitor\nin London, and it's not every man can say the same. But, I say, didn't I\npitch it in hot?'\n\nPitman returned no answer.\n\n'Hullo!' said the lawyer, pausing, 'what's wrong with the long-suffering\nPitman?'\n\n'You had no right to speak of me as you did,' the artist broke out;\n'your language was perfectly unjustifiable; you have wounded me deeply.'\n\n'I never said a word about you,' replied Michael. 'I spoke of Ezra\nThomas; and do please remember that there's no such party.'\n\n'It's just as hard to bear,' said the artist.\n\nBut by this time they had reached the corner of the by-street; and\nthere was the faithful shoeblack, standing by the horses' heads with\na splendid assumption of dignity; and there was the piano, figuring\nforlorn upon the cart, while the rain beat upon its unprotected sides\nand trickled down its elegantly varnished legs.\n\nThe shoeblack was again put in requisition to bring five or six strong\nfellows from the neighbouring public-house; and the last battle of the\ncampaign opened. It is probable that Mr Gideon Forsyth had not yet taken\nhis seat in the train for Hampton Court, before Michael opened the door\nof the chambers, and the grunting porters deposited the Broadwood grand\nin the middle of the floor.\n\n'And now,' said the lawyer, after he had sent the men about their\nbusiness, 'one more precaution. We must leave him the key of the piano,\nand we must contrive that he shall find it. Let me see.' And he built a\nsquare tower of cigars upon the top of the instrument, and dropped the\nkey into the middle.\n\n'Poor young man,' said the artist, as they descended the stairs.\n\n'He is in a devil of a position,' assented Michael drily. 'It'll brace\nhim up.'\n\n'And that reminds me,' observed the excellent Pitman, 'that I fear I\ndisplayed a most ungrateful temper. I had no right, I see, to resent\nexpressions, wounding as they were, which were in no sense directed.'\n\n'That's all right,' cried Michael, getting on the cart. 'Not a word\nmore, Pitman. Very proper feeling on your part; no man of self-respect\ncan stand by and hear his alias insulted.'\n\nThe rain had now ceased, Michael was fairly sober, the body had been\ndisposed of, and the friends were reconciled. The return to the mews was\ntherefore (in comparison with previous stages of the day's adventures)\nquite a holiday outing; and when they had returned the cart and walked\nforth again from the stable-yard, unchallenged, and even unsuspected,\nPitman drew a deep breath of joy. 'And now,' he said, 'we can go home.'\n\n'Pitman,' said the lawyer, stopping short, 'your recklessness fills me\nwith concern. What! we have been wet through the greater part of the\nday, and you propose, in cold blood, to go home! No, sir--hot Scotch.'\n\nAnd taking his friend's arm he led him sternly towards the nearest\npublic-house. Nor was Pitman (I regret to say) wholly unwilling.\nNow that peace was restored and the body gone, a certain innocent\nskittishness began to appear in the manners of the artist; and when\nhe touched his steaming glass to Michael's, he giggled aloud like a\nventuresome schoolgirl at a picnic.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. Glorious Conclusion of Michael Finsbury's Holiday\n\nI know Michael Finsbury personally; my business--I know the awkwardness\nof having such a man for a lawyer--still it's an old story now, and\nthere is such a thing as gratitude, and, in short, my legal business,\nalthough now (I am thankful to say) of quite a placid character, remains\nentirely in Michael's hands. But the trouble is I have no natural talent\nfor addresses; I learn one for every man--that is friendship's offering;\nand the friend who subsequently changes his residence is dead to me,\nmemory refusing to pursue him. Thus it comes about that, as I always\nwrite to Michael at his office, I cannot swear to his number in the\nKing's Road. Of course (like my neighbours), I have been to dinner\nthere. Of late years, since his accession to wealth, neglect of\nbusiness, and election to the club, these little festivals have become\ncommon. He picks up a few fellows in the smoking-room--all men of Attic\nwit--myself, for instance, if he has the luck to find me disengaged; a\nstring of hansoms may be observed (by Her Majesty) bowling gaily through\nSt James's Park; and in a quarter of an hour the party surrounds one of\nthe best appointed boards in London.\n\nBut at the time of which we write the house in the King's Road (let us\nstill continue to call it No. 233) was kept very quiet; when Michael\nentertained guests it was at the halls of Nichol or Verrey that he would\nconvene them, and the door of his private residence remained closed\nagainst his friends. The upper storey, which was sunny, was set apart\nfor his father; the drawing-room was never opened; the dining-room was\nthe scene of Michael's life. It is in this pleasant apartment,\nsheltered from the curiosity of King's Road by wire blinds, and entirely\nsurrounded by the lawyer's unrivalled library of poetry and criminal\ntrials, that we find him sitting down to his dinner after his holiday\nwith Pitman. A spare old lady, with very bright eyes and a mouth\nhumorously compressed, waited upon the lawyer's needs; in every line of\nher countenance she betrayed the fact that she was an old retainer;\nin every word that fell from her lips she flaunted the glorious\ncircumstance of a Scottish origin; and the fear with which this powerful\ncombination fills the boldest was obviously no stranger to the bosom of\nour friend. The hot Scotch having somewhat warmed up the embers of the\nHeidsieck. It was touching to observe the master's eagerness to pull\nhimself together under the servant's eye; and when he remarked, 'I\nthink, Teena, I'll take a brandy and soda,' he spoke like a man doubtful\nof his elocution, and not half certain of obedience.\n\n'No such a thing, Mr Michael,' was the prompt return. 'Clar't and\nwater.'\n\n'Well, well, Teena, I daresay you know best,' said the master. 'Very\nfatiguing day at the office, though.'\n\n'What?' said the retainer, 'ye never were near the office!'\n\n'O yes, I was though; I was repeatedly along Fleet Street,' returned\nMichael.\n\n'Pretty pliskies ye've been at this day!' cried the old lady, with\nhumorous alacrity; and then, 'Take care--don't break my crystal!' she\ncried, as the lawyer came within an ace of knocking the glasses off the\ntable.\n\n'And how is he keeping?' asked Michael.\n\n'O, just the same, Mr Michael, just the way he'll be till the end,\nworthy man!' was the reply. 'But ye'll not be the first that's asked me\nthat the day.'\n\n'No?' said the lawyer. 'Who else?'\n\n'Ay, that's a joke, too,' said Teena grimly. 'A friend of yours: Mr\nMorris.'\n\n'Morris! What was the little beggar wanting here?' enquired Michael.\n\n'Wantin'? To see him,' replied the housekeeper, completing her meaning\nby a movement of the thumb toward the upper storey. 'That's by his way\nof it; but I've an idee of my own. He tried to bribe me, Mr Michael.\nBribe--me!' she repeated, with inimitable scorn. 'That's no' kind of a\nyoung gentleman.'\n\n'Did he so?' said Michael. 'I bet he didn't offer much.'\n\n'No more he did,' replied Teena; nor could any subsequent questioning\nelicit from her the sum with which the thrifty leather merchant had\nattempted to corrupt her. 'But I sent him about his business,' she said\ngallantly. 'He'll not come here again in a hurry.'\n\n'He mustn't see my father, you know; mind that!' said Michael. 'I'm not\ngoing to have any public exhibition to a little beast like him.'\n\n'No fear of me lettin' him,' replied the trusty one. 'But the joke\nis this, Mr Michael--see, ye're upsettin' the sauce, that's a clean\ntablecloth--the best of the joke is that he thinks your father's dead\nand you're keepin' it dark.'\n\nMichael whistled. 'Set a thief to catch a thief,' said he.\n\n'Exac'ly what I told him!' cried the delighted dame.\n\n'I'll make him dance for that,' said Michael.\n\n'Couldn't ye get the law of him some way?' suggested Teena truculently.\n\n'No, I don't think I could, and I'm quite sure I don't want to,'\nreplied Michael. 'But I say, Teena, I really don't believe this claret's\nwholesome; it's not a sound, reliable wine. Give us a brandy and soda,\nthere's a good soul.' Teena's face became like adamant. 'Well, then,'\nsaid the lawyer fretfully, 'I won't eat any more dinner.'\n\n'Ye can please yourself about that, Mr Michael,' said Teena, and began\ncomposedly to take away.\n\n'I do wish Teena wasn't a faithful servant!' sighed the lawyer, as he\nissued into Kings's Road.\n\nThe rain had ceased; the wind still blew, but only with a pleasant\nfreshness; the town, in the clear darkness of the night, glittered with\nstreet-lamps and shone with glancing rain-pools. 'Come, this is better,'\nthought the lawyer to himself, and he walked on eastward, lending a\npleased ear to the wheels and the million footfalls of the city.\n\nNear the end of the King's Road he remembered his brandy and soda, and\nentered a flaunting public-house. A good many persons were present, a\nwaterman from a cab-stand, half a dozen of the chronically unemployed, a\ngentleman (in one corner) trying to sell aesthetic photographs out of\na leather case to another and very youthful gentleman with a yellow\ngoatee, and a pair of lovers debating some fine shade (in the other).\nBut the centre-piece and great attraction was a little old man, in a\nblack, ready-made surtout, which was obviously a recent purchase. On\nthe marble table in front of him, beside a sandwich and a glass of\nbeer, there lay a battered forage cap. His hand fluttered abroad with\noratorical gestures; his voice, naturally shrill, was plainly tuned to\nthe pitch of the lecture room; and by arts, comparable to those of\nthe Ancient Mariner, he was now holding spellbound the barmaid, the\nwaterman, and four of the unemployed.\n\n'I have examined all the theatres in London,' he was saying; 'and pacing\nthe principal entrances, I have ascertained them to be ridiculously\ndisproportionate to the requirements of their audiences. The doors\nopened the wrong way--I forget at this moment which it is, but have a\nnote of it at home; they were frequently locked during the performance,\nand when the auditorium was literally thronged with English people. You\nhave probably not had my opportunities of comparing distant lands; but\nI can assure you this has been long ago recognized as a mark\nof aristocratic government. Do you suppose, in a country really\nself-governed, such abuses could exist? Your own intelligence, however\nuncultivated, tells you they could not. Take Austria, a country even\npossibly more enslaved than England. I have myself conversed with one of\nthe survivors of the Ring Theatre, and though his colloquial German\nwas not very good, I succeeded in gathering a pretty clear idea of his\nopinion of the case. But, what will perhaps interest you still more,\nhere is a cutting on the subject from a Vienna newspaper, which I will\nnow read to you, translating as I go. You can see for yourselves; it\nis printed in the German character.' And he held the cutting out for\nverification, much as a conjuror passes a trick orange along the front\nbench.\n\n'Hullo, old gentleman! Is this you?' said Michael, laying his hand upon\nthe orator's shoulder.\n\nThe figure turned with a convulsion of alarm, and showed the countenance\nof Mr Joseph Finsbury. 'You, Michael!' he cried. 'There's no one with\nyou, is there?'\n\n'No,' replied Michael, ordering a brandy and soda, 'there's nobody with\nme; whom do you expect?'\n\n'I thought of Morris or John,' said the old gentleman, evidently greatly\nrelieved.\n\n'What the devil would I be doing with Morris or John?' cried the nephew.\n\n'There is something in that,' returned Joseph. 'And I believe I can\ntrust you. I believe you will stand by me.'\n\n'I hardly know what you mean,' said the lawyer, 'but if you are in need\nof money I am flush.'\n\n'It's not that, my dear boy,' said the uncle, shaking him by the hand.\n'I'll tell you all about it afterwards.'\n\n'All right,' responded the nephew. 'I stand treat, Uncle Joseph; what\nwill you have?'\n\n'In that case,' replied the old gentleman, 'I'll take another\nsandwich. I daresay I surprise you,' he went on, 'with my presence in\na public-house; but the fact is, I act on a sound but little-known\nprinciple of my own--'\n\n'O, it's better known than you suppose,' said Michael sipping his brandy\nand soda. 'I always act on it myself when I want a drink.'\n\nThe old gentleman, who was anxious to propitiate Michael, laughed a\ncheerless laugh. 'You have such a flow of spirits,' said he, 'I am sure\nI often find it quite amusing. But regarding this principle of which\nI was about to speak. It is that of accommodating one's-self to the\nmanners of any land (however humble) in which our lot may be cast. Now,\nin France, for instance, every one goes to a cafe for his meals; in\nAmerica, to what is called a \"two-bit house\"; in England the people\nresort to such an institution as the present for refreshment. With\nsandwiches, tea, and an occasional glass of bitter beer, a man can live\nluxuriously in London for fourteen pounds twelve shillings per annum.'\n\n'Yes, I know,' returned Michael, 'but that's not including clothes,\nwashing, or boots. The whole thing, with cigars and occasional sprees,\ncosts me over seven hundred a year.'\n\nBut this was Michael's last interruption. He listened in good-humoured\nsilence to the remainder of his uncle's lecture, which speedily branched\nto political reform, thence to the theory of the weather-glass, with an\nillustrative account of a bora in the Adriatic; thence again to the best\nmanner of teaching arithmetic to the deaf-and-dumb; and with that, the\nsandwich being then no more, explicuit valde feliciter. A moment later\nthe pair issued forth on the King's Road.\n\n'Michael,' said his uncle, 'the reason that I am here is because I\ncannot endure those nephews of mine. I find them intolerable.'\n\n'I daresay you do,' assented Michael, 'I never could stand them for a\nmoment.'\n\n'They wouldn't let me speak,' continued the old gentleman bitterly; 'I\nnever was allowed to get a word in edgewise; I was shut up at once with\nsome impertinent remark. They kept me on short allowance of pencils,\nwhen I wished to make notes of the most absorbing interest; the daily\nnewspaper was guarded from me like a young baby from a gorilla. Now, you\nknow me, Michael. I live for my calculations; I live for my manifold and\never-changing views of life; pens and paper and the productions of the\npopular press are to me as important as food and drink; and my life\nwas growing quite intolerable when, in the confusion of that fortunate\nrailway accident at Browndean, I made my escape. They must think\nme dead, and are trying to deceive the world for the chance of the\ntontine.'\n\n'By the way, how do you stand for money?' asked Michael kindly.\n\n'Pecuniarily speaking, I am rich,' returned the old man with\ncheerfulness. 'I am living at present at the rate of one hundred a year,\nwith unlimited pens and paper; the British Museum at which to get books;\nand all the newspapers I choose to read. But it's extraordinary how\nlittle a man of intellectual interest requires to bother with books in a\nprogressive age. The newspapers supply all the conclusions.'\n\n'I'll tell you what,' said Michael, 'come and stay with me.'\n\n'Michael,' said the old gentleman, 'it's very kind of you, but you\nscarcely understand what a peculiar position I occupy. There are some\nlittle financial complications; as a guardian, my efforts were not\naltogether blessed; and not to put too fine a point upon the matter, I\nam absolutely in the power of that vile fellow, Morris.'\n\n'You should be disguised,' cried Michael eagerly; 'I will lend you a\npair of window-glass spectacles and some red side-whiskers.'\n\n'I had already canvassed that idea,' replied the old gentleman, 'but\nfeared to awaken remark in my unpretentious lodgings. The aristocracy, I\nam well aware--'\n\n'But see here,' interrupted Michael, 'how do you come to have any money\nat all? Don't make a stranger of me, Uncle Joseph; I know all about the\ntrust, and the hash you made of it, and the assignment you were forced\nto make to Morris.'\n\nJoseph narrated his dealings with the bank.\n\n'O, but I say, this won't do,' cried the lawyer. 'You've put your foot\nin it. You had no right to do what you did.'\n\n'The whole thing is mine, Michael,' protested the old gentleman. 'I\nfounded and nursed that business on principles entirely of my own.'\n\n'That's all very fine,' said the lawyer; 'but you made an assignment,\nyou were forced to make it, too; even then your position was extremely\nshaky; but now, my dear sir, it means the dock.'\n\n'It isn't possible,' cried Joseph; 'the law cannot be so unjust as\nthat?'\n\n'And the cream of the thing,' interrupted Michael, with a sudden shout\nof laughter, 'the cream of the thing is this, that of course you've\ndowned the leather business! I must say, Uncle Joseph, you have strange\nideas of law, but I like your taste in humour.'\n\n'I see nothing to laugh at,' observed Mr Finsbury tartly.\n\n'And talking of that, has Morris any power to sign for the firm?' asked\nMichael.\n\n'No one but myself,' replied Joseph.\n\n'Poor devil of a Morris! O, poor devil of a Morris!' cried the lawyer in\ndelight. 'And his keeping up the farce that you're at home! O, Morris,\nthe Lord has delivered you into my hands! Let me see, Uncle Joseph, what\ndo you suppose the leather business worth?'\n\n'It was worth a hundred thousand,' said Joseph bitterly, 'when it was\nin my hands. But then there came a Scotsman--it is supposed he had a\ncertain talent--it was entirely directed to bookkeeping--no accountant\nin London could understand a word of any of his books; and then there\nwas Morris, who is perfectly incompetent. And now it is worth very\nlittle. Morris tried to sell it last year; and Pogram and Jarris offered\nonly four thousand.'\n\n'I shall turn my attention to leather,' said Michael with decision.\n\n'You?' asked Joseph. 'I advise you not. There is nothing in the whole\nfield of commerce more surprising than the fluctuations of the leather\nmarket. Its sensitiveness may be described as morbid.'\n\n'And now, Uncle Joseph, what have you done with all that money?' asked\nthe lawyer.\n\n'Paid it into a bank and drew twenty pounds,' answered Mr Finsbury\npromptly. 'Why?'\n\n'Very well,' said Michael. 'Tomorrow I shall send down a clerk with a\ncheque for a hundred, and he'll draw out the original sum and return it\nto the Anglo-Patagonian, with some sort of explanation which I will try\nto invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can't touch\na penny of it without forgery, it will do no harm to my little scheme.'\n\n'But what am I to do?' asked Joseph; 'I cannot live upon nothing.'\n\n'Don't you hear?' returned Michael. 'I send you a cheque for a hundred;\nwhich leaves you eighty to go along upon; and when that's done, apply to\nme again.'\n\n'I would rather not be beholden to your bounty all the same,' said\nJoseph, biting at his white moustache. 'I would rather live on my own\nmoney, since I have it.'\n\nMichael grasped his arm. 'Will nothing make you believe,' he cried,\n'that I am trying to save you from Dartmoor?'\n\nHis earnestness staggered the old man. 'I must turn my attention\nto law,' he said; 'it will be a new field; for though, of course, I\nunderstand its general principles, I have never really applied my\nmind to the details, and this view of yours, for example, comes on me\nentirely by surprise. But you may be right, and of course at my time\nof life--for I am no longer young--any really long term of imprisonment\nwould be highly prejudicial. But, my dear nephew, I have no claim on\nyou; you have no call to support me.'\n\n'That's all right,' said Michael; 'I'll probably get it out of the\nleather business.'\n\nAnd having taken down the old gentleman's address, Michael left him at\nthe corner of a street.\n\n'What a wonderful old muddler!' he reflected, 'and what a singular thing\nis life! I seem to be condemned to be the instrument of Providence. Let\nme see; what have I done today? Disposed of a dead body, saved Pitman,\nsaved my Uncle Joseph, brightened up Forsyth, and drunk a devil of a lot\nof most indifferent liquor. Let's top off with a visit to my cousins,\nand be the instrument of Providence in earnest. Tomorrow I can turn\nmy attention to leather; tonight I'll just make it lively for 'em in a\nfriendly spirit.'\n\nAbout a quarter of an hour later, as the clocks were striking eleven,\nthe instrument of Providence descended from a hansom, and, bidding the\ndriver wait, rapped at the door of No. 16 John Street.\n\nIt was promptly opened by Morris.\n\n'O, it's you, Michael,' he said, carefully blocking up the narrow\nopening: 'it's very late.'\n\nMichael without a word reached forth, grasped Morris warmly by the hand,\nand gave it so extreme a squeeze that the sullen householder fell back.\nProfiting by this movement, the lawyer obtained a footing in the lobby\nand marched into the dining-room, with Morris at his heels.\n\n'Where's my Uncle Joseph?' demanded Michael, sitting down in the most\ncomfortable chair.\n\n'He's not been very well lately,' replied Morris; 'he's staying at\nBrowndean; John is nursing him; and I am alone, as you see.'\n\nMichael smiled to himself. 'I want to see him on particular business,'\nhe said.\n\n'You can't expect to see my uncle when you won't let me see your\nfather,' returned Morris.\n\n'Fiddlestick,' said Michael. 'My father is my father; but Joseph is just\nas much my uncle as he's yours; and you have no right to sequestrate his\nperson.'\n\n'I do no such thing,' said Morris doggedly. 'He is not well, he is\ndangerously ill and nobody can see him.'\n\n'I'll tell you what, then,' said Michael. 'I'll make a clean breast\nof it. I have come down like the opossum, Morris; I have come to\ncompromise.'\n\nPoor Morris turned as pale as death, and then a flush of wrath against\nthe injustice of man's destiny dyed his very temples. 'What do you\nmean?' he cried, 'I don't believe a word of it.' And when Michael had\nassured him of his seriousness, 'Well, then,' he cried, with another\ndeep flush, 'I won't; so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.'\n\n'Oho!' said Michael queerly. 'You say your uncle is dangerously ill, and\nyou won't compromise? There's something very fishy about that.'\n\n'What do you mean?' cried Morris hoarsely.\n\n'I only say it's fishy,' returned Michael, 'that is, pertaining to the\nfinny tribe.'\n\n'Do you mean to insinuate anything?' cried Morris stormily, trying the\nhigh hand.\n\n'Insinuate?' repeated Michael. 'O, don't let's begin to use awkward\nexpressions! Let us drown our differences in a bottle, like two affable\nkinsmen. The Two Affable Kinsmen, sometimes attributed to Shakespeare,'\nhe added.\n\nMorris's mind was labouring like a mill. 'Does he suspect? or is this\nchance and stuff? Should I soap, or should I bully? Soap,' he concluded.\n'It gains time.' 'Well,' said he aloud, and with rather a painful\naffectation of heartiness, 'it's long since we have had an evening\ntogether, Michael; and though my habits (as you know) are very\ntemperate, I may as well make an exception. Excuse me one moment till I\nfetch a bottle of whisky from the cellar.'\n\n'No whisky for me,' said Michael; 'a little of the old still champagne\nor nothing.'\n\nFor a moment Morris stood irresolute, for the wine was very valuable:\nthe next he had quitted the room without a word. His quick mind had\nperceived his advantage; in thus dunning him for the cream of the\ncellar, Michael was playing into his hand. 'One bottle?' he thought. 'By\nGeorge, I'll give him two! this is no moment for economy; and once the\nbeast is drunk, it's strange if I don't wring his secret out of him.'\n\nWith two bottles, accordingly, he returned. Glasses were produced, and\nMorris filled them with hospitable grace.\n\n'I drink to you, cousin!' he cried gaily. 'Don't spare the wine-cup in\nmy house.'\n\nMichael drank his glass deliberately, standing at the table; filled it\nagain, and returned to his chair, carrying the bottle along with him.\n\n'The spoils of war!' he said apologetically. 'The weakest goes to the\nwall. Science, Morris, science.' Morris could think of no reply, and for\nan appreciable interval silence reigned. But two glasses of the still\nchampagne produced a rapid change in Michael.\n\n'There's a want of vivacity about you, Morris,' he observed. 'You may be\ndeep; but I'll be hanged if you're vivacious!'\n\n'What makes you think me deep?' asked Morris with an air of pleased\nsimplicity.\n\n'Because you won't compromise,' said the lawyer. 'You're deep dog,\nMorris, very deep dog, not t' compromise--remarkable deep dog. And\na very good glass of wine; it's the only respectable feature in the\nFinsbury family, this wine; rarer thing than a title--much rarer. Now a\nman with glass wine like this in cellar, I wonder why won't compromise?'\n\n'Well, YOU wouldn't compromise before, you know,' said the smiling\nMorris. 'Turn about is fair play.'\n\n'I wonder why _I_ wouldn' compromise? I wonder why YOU wouldn'?'\nenquired Michael. 'I wonder why we each think the other wouldn'? 'S\nquite a remarrable--remarkable problem,' he added, triumphing over oral\nobstacles, not without obvious pride. 'Wonder what we each think--don't\nyou?'\n\n'What do you suppose to have been my reason?' asked Morris adroitly.\n\nMichael looked at him and winked. 'That's cool,' said he. 'Next thing,\nyou'll ask me to help you out of the muddle. I know I'm emissary of\nProvidence, but not that kind! You get out of it yourself, like Aesop\nand the other fellow. Must be dreadful muddle for young orphan o' forty;\nleather business and all!'\n\n'I am sure I don't know what you mean,' said Morris.\n\n'Not sure I know myself,' said Michael. 'This is exc'lent vintage,\nsir--exc'lent vintage. Nothing against the tipple. Only thing: here's a\nvaluable uncle disappeared. Now, what I want to know: where's valuable\nuncle?'\n\n'I have told you: he is at Browndean,' answered Morris, furtively wiping\nhis brow, for these repeated hints began to tell upon him cruelly.\n\n'Very easy say Brown--Browndee--no' so easy after all!' cried Michael.\n'Easy say; anything's easy say, when you can say it. What I don' like's\ntotal disappearance of an uncle. Not businesslike.' And he wagged his\nhead.\n\n'It is all perfectly simple,' returned Morris, with laborious calm.\n'There is no mystery. He stays at Browndean, where he got a shake in the\naccident.'\n\n'Ah!' said Michael, 'got devil of a shake!'\n\n'Why do you say that?' cried Morris sharply.\n\n'Best possible authority. Told me so yourself,' said the lawyer. 'But if\nyou tell me contrary now, of course I'm bound to believe either the one\nstory or the other. Point is I've upset this bottle, still champagne's\nexc'lent thing carpet--point is, is valuable uncle dead--an'--bury?'\n\nMorris sprang from his seat. 'What's that you say?' he gasped.\n\n'I say it's exc'lent thing carpet,' replied Michael, rising. 'Exc'lent\nthing promote healthy action of the skin. Well, it's all one, anyway.\nGive my love to Uncle Champagne.'\n\n'You're not going away?' said Morris.\n\n'Awf'ly sorry, ole man. Got to sit up sick friend,' said the wavering\nMichael.\n\n'You shall not go till you have explained your hints,' returned Morris\nfiercely. 'What do you mean? What brought you here?'\n\n'No offence, I trust,' said the lawyer, turning round as he opened the\ndoor; 'only doing my duty as shemishery of Providence.'\n\nGroping his way to the front-door, he opened it with some difficulty,\nand descended the steps to the hansom. The tired driver looked up as he\napproached, and asked where he was to go next.\n\nMichael observed that Morris had followed him to the steps; a brilliant\ninspiration came to him. 'Anything t' give pain,' he reflected. . . .\n'Drive Shcotlan' Yard,' he added aloud, holding to the wheel to steady\nhimself; 'there's something devilish fishy, cabby, about those cousins.\nMush' be cleared up! Drive Shcotlan' Yard.'\n\n'You don't mean that, sir,' said the man, with the ready sympathy of the\nlower orders for an intoxicated gentleman. 'I had better take you home,\nsir; you can go to Scotland Yard tomorrow.'\n\n'Is it as friend or as perfessional man you advise me not to go\nShcotlan' Yard t'night?' enquired Michael. 'All righ', never min'\nShcotlan' Yard, drive Gaiety bar.'\n\n'The Gaiety bar is closed,' said the man.\n\n'Then home,' said Michael, with the same cheerfulness.\n\n'Where to, sir?'\n\n'I don't remember, I'm sure,' said Michael, entering the vehicle, 'drive\nShcotlan' Yard and ask.'\n\n'But you'll have a card,' said the man, through the little aperture in\nthe top, 'give me your card-case.'\n\n'What imagi--imagination in a cabby!' cried the lawyer, producing his\ncard-case, and handing it to the driver.\n\nThe man read it by the light of the lamp. 'Mr Michael Finsbury, 233\nKing's Road, Chelsea. Is that it, sir?'\n\n'Right you are,' cried Michael, 'drive there if you can see way.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. Gideon Forsyth and the Broadwood Grand\n\nThe reader has perhaps read that remarkable work, Who Put Back the\nClock? by E. H. B., which appeared for several days upon the railway\nbookstalls and then vanished entirely from the face of the earth.\nWhether eating Time makes the chief of his diet out of old editions;\nwhether Providence has passed a special enactment on behalf of authors;\nor whether these last have taken the law into their own hand, bound\nthemselves into a dark conspiracy with a password, which I would\ndie rather than reveal, and night after night sally forth under some\nvigorous leader, such as Mr James Payn or Mr Walter Besant, on their\ntask of secret spoliation--certain it is, at least, that the old\neditions pass, giving place to new. To the proof, it is believed there\nare now only three copies extant of Who Put Back the Clock? one in\nthe British Museum, successfully concealed by a wrong entry in the\ncatalogue; another in one of the cellars (the cellar where the music\naccumulates) of the Advocates' Library at Edinburgh; and a third, bound\nin morocco, in the possession of Gideon Forsyth. To account for the very\ndifferent fate attending this third exemplar, the readiest theory is\nto suppose that Gideon admired the tale. How to explain that admiration\nmight appear (to those who have perused the work) more difficult; but\nthe weakness of a parent is extreme, and Gideon (and not his uncle,\nwhose initials he had humorously borrowed) was the author of Who Put\nBack the Clock? He had never acknowledged it, or only to some intimate\nfriends while it was still in proof; after its appearance and alarming\nfailure, the modesty of the novelist had become more pressing, and the\nsecret was now likely to be better kept than that of the authorship of\nWaverley.\n\nA copy of the work (for the date of my tale is already yesterday) still\nfigured in dusty solitude in the bookstall at Waterloo; and Gideon, as\nhe passed with his ticket for Hampton Court, smiled contemptuously at\nthe creature of his thoughts. What an idle ambition was the author's!\nHow far beneath him was the practice of that childish art! With his hand\nclosing on his first brief, he felt himself a man at last; and the\nmuse who presides over the police romance, a lady presumably of French\nextraction, fled his neighbourhood, and returned to join the dance round\nthe springs of Helicon, among her Grecian sisters.\n\nRobust, practical reflection still cheered the young barrister upon his\njourney. Again and again he selected the little country-house in its\nislet of great oaks, which he was to make his future home. Like a\nprudent householder, he projected improvements as he passed; to one he\nadded a stable, to another a tennis-court, a third he supplied with a\nbecoming rustic boat-house.\n\n'How little a while ago,' he could not but reflect, 'I was a careless\nyoung dog with no thought but to be comfortable! I cared for nothing\nbut boating and detective novels. I would have passed an old-fashioned\ncountry-house with large kitchen-garden, stabling, boat-house, and\nspacious offices, without so much as a look, and certainly would have\nmade no enquiry as to the drains. How a man ripens with the years!'\n\nThe intelligent reader will perceive the ravages of Miss Hazeltine.\nGideon had carried Julia straight to Mr Bloomfield's house; and\nthat gentleman, having been led to understand she was the victim of\noppression, had noisily espoused her cause. He worked himself into\na fine breathing heat; in which, to a man of his temperament, action\nbecame needful.\n\n'I do not know which is the worse,' he cried, 'the fraudulent old\nvillain or the unmanly young cub. I will write to the Pall Mall and\nexpose them. Nonsense, sir; they must be exposed! It's a public duty.\nDid you not tell me the fellow was a Tory? O, the uncle is a Radical\nlecturer, is he? No doubt the uncle has been grossly wronged. But of\ncourse, as you say, that makes a change; it becomes scarce so much a\npublic duty.'\n\nAnd he sought and instantly found a fresh outlet for his alacrity. Miss\nHazeltine (he now perceived) must be kept out of the way; his houseboat\nwas lying ready--he had returned but a day or two before from his usual\ncruise; there was no place like a houseboat for concealment; and that\nvery morning, in the teeth of the easterly gale, Mr and Mrs Bloomfield\nand Miss Julia Hazeltine had started forth on their untimely voyage.\nGideon pled in vain to be allowed to join the party. 'No, Gid,' said his\nuncle. 'You will be watched; you must keep away from us.' Nor had the\nbarrister ventured to contest this strange illusion; for he feared if\nhe rubbed off any of the romance, that Mr Bloomfield might weary of the\nwhole affair. And his discretion was rewarded; for the Squirradical,\nlaying a heavy hand upon his nephew's shoulder, had added these notable\nexpressions: 'I see what you are after, Gid. But if you're going to get\nthe girl, you have to work, sir.'\n\nThese pleasing sounds had cheered the barrister all day, as he sat\nreading in chambers; they continued to form the ground-base of his manly\nmusings as he was whirled to Hampton Court; even when he landed at the\nstation, and began to pull himself together for his delicate interview,\nthe voice of Uncle Ned and the eyes of Julia were not forgotten.\n\nBut now it began to rain surprises: in all Hampton Court there was no\nKurnaul Villa, no Count Tarnow, and no count. This was strange; but,\nviewed in the light of the incoherency of his instructions, not perhaps\ninexplicable; Mr Dickson had been lunching, and he might have made some\nfatal oversight in the address. What was the thoroughly prompt, manly,\nand businesslike step? thought Gideon; and he answered himself at\nonce: 'A telegram, very laconic.' Speedily the wires were flashing the\nfollowing very important missive: 'Dickson, Langham Hotel. Villa and\npersons both unknown here, suppose erroneous address; follow self next\ntrain.--Forsyth.' And at the Langham Hotel, sure enough, with a brow\nexpressive of dispatch and intellectual effort, Gideon descended not\nlong after from a smoking hansom.\n\nI do not suppose that Gideon will ever forget the Langham Hotel. No\nCount Tarnow was one thing; no John Dickson and no Ezra Thomas, quite\nanother. How, why, and what next, danced in his bewildered brain; from\nevery centre of what we playfully call the human intellect incongruous\nmessages were telegraphed; and before the hubbub of dismay had quite\nsubsided, the barrister found himself driving furiously for his\nchambers. There was at least a cave of refuge; it was at least a place\nto think in; and he climbed the stair, put his key in the lock and\nopened the door, with some approach to hope.\n\nIt was all dark within, for the night had some time fallen; but Gideon\nknew his room, he knew where the matches stood on the end of the\nchimney-piece; and he advanced boldly, and in so doing dashed himself\nagainst a heavy body; where (slightly altering the expressions of the\nsong) no heavy body should have been. There had been nothing there when\nGideon went out; he had locked the door behind him, he had found it\nlocked on his return, no one could have entered, the furniture could not\nhave changed its own position. And yet undeniably there was a something\nthere. He thrust out his hands in the darkness. Yes, there was\nsomething, something large, something smooth, something cold.\n\n'Heaven forgive me!' said Gideon, 'it feels like a piano.'\n\nAnd the next moment he remembered the vestas in his waistcoat pocket and\nhad struck a light.\n\nIt was indeed a piano that met his doubtful gaze; a vast and costly\ninstrument, stained with the rains of the afternoon and defaced\nwith recent scratches. The light of the vesta was reflected from the\nvarnished sides, like a staice in quiet water; and in the farther end of\nthe room the shadow of that strange visitor loomed bulkily and wavered\non the wall.\n\nGideon let the match burn to his fingers, and the darkness closed once\nmore on his bewilderment. Then with trembling hands he lit the lamp and\ndrew near. Near or far, there was no doubt of the fact: the thing was\na piano. There, where by all the laws of God and man it was impossible\nthat it should be--there the thing impudently stood. Gideon threw open\nthe keyboard and struck a chord. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of the\nroom. 'Is there anything wrong with me?' he thought, with a pang; and\ndrawing in a seat, obstinately persisted in his attempts to ravish\nsilence, now with sparkling arpeggios, now with a sonata of Beethoven's\nwhich (in happier days) he knew to be one of the loudest pieces of that\npowerful composer. Still not a sound. He gave the Broadwood two great\nbangs with his clenched first. All was still as the grave. The young\nbarrister started to his feet.\n\n'I am stark-staring mad,' he cried aloud, 'and no one knows it but\nmyself. God's worst curse has fallen on me.'\n\nHis fingers encountered his watch-chain; instantly he had plucked forth\nhis watch and held it to his ear. He could hear it ticking.\n\n'I am not deaf,' he said aloud. 'I am only insane. My mind has quitted\nme for ever.'\n\nHe looked uneasily about the room, and--gazed with lacklustre eyes at\nthe chair in which Mr Dickson had installed himself. The end of a cigar\nlay near on the fender.\n\n'No,' he thought, 'I don't believe that was a dream; but God knows\nmy mind is failing rapidly. I seem to be hungry, for instance; it's\nprobably another hallucination. Still I might try. I shall have one more\ngood meal; I shall go to the Cafe Royal, and may possibly be removed\nfrom there direct to the asylum.'\n\nHe wondered with morbid interest, as he descended the stairs, how he\nwould first betray his terrible condition--would he attack a waiter? or\neat glass?--and when he had mounted into a cab, he bade the man drive to\nNichol's, with a lurking fear that there was no such place.\n\nThe flaring, gassy entrance of the cafe speedily set his mind at rest;\nhe was cheered besides to recognize his favourite waiter; his orders\nappeared to be coherent; the dinner, when it came, was quite a sensible\nmeal, and he ate it with enjoyment. 'Upon my word,' he reflected, 'I\nam about tempted to indulge a hope. Have I been hasty? Have I done what\nRobert Skill would have done?' Robert Skill (I need scarcely mention)\nwas the name of the principal character in Who Put Back the Clock? It\nhad occurred to the author as a brilliant and probable invention; to\nreaders of a critical turn, Robert appeared scarce upon a level with his\nsurname; but it is the difficulty of the police romance, that the reader\nis always a man of such vastly greater ingenuity than the writer. In the\neyes of his creator, however, Robert Skill was a word to conjure with;\nthe thought braced and spurred him; what that brilliant creature would\nhave done Gideon would do also. This frame of mind is not uncommon; the\ndistressed general, the baited divine, the hesitating author, decide\nseverally to do what Napoleon, what St Paul, what Shakespeare would\nhave done; and there remains only the minor question, What is that? In\nGideon's case one thing was clear: Skill was a man of singular decision,\nhe would have taken some step (whatever it was) at once; and the only\nstep that Gideon could think of was to return to his chambers.\n\nThis being achieved, all further inspiration failed him, and he stood\npitifully staring at the instrument of his confusion. To touch the keys\nagain was more than he durst venture on; whether they had maintained\ntheir former silence, or responded with the tones of the last trump,\nit would have equally dethroned his resolution. 'It may be a practical\njest,' he reflected, 'though it seems elaborate and costly. And yet what\nelse can it be? It MUST be a practical jest.' And just then his eye fell\nupon a feature which seemed corroborative of that view: the pagoda of\ncigars which Michael had erected ere he left the chambers. 'Why that?'\nreflected Gideon. 'It seems entirely irresponsible.' And drawing near,\nhe gingerly demolished it. 'A key,' he thought. 'Why that? And why\nso conspicuously placed?' He made the circuit of the instrument, and\nperceived the keyhole at the back. 'Aha! this is what the key is for,'\nsaid he. 'They wanted me to look inside. Stranger and stranger.' And\nwith that he turned the key and raised the lid.\n\nIn what antics of agony, in what fits of flighty resolution, in what\ncollapses of despair, Gideon consumed the night, it would be ungenerous\nto enquire too closely.\n\nThat trill of tiny song with which the eaves-birds of London welcome\nthe approach of day found him limp and rumpled and bloodshot, and with a\nmind still vacant of resource. He rose and looked forth unrejoicingly on\nblinded windows, an empty street, and the grey daylight dotted with the\nyellow lamps. There are mornings when the city seems to awake with a\nsick headache; this was one of them; and still the twittering reveille\nof the sparrows stirred in Gideon's spirit.\n\n'Day here,' he thought, 'and I still helpless! This must come to an\nend.' And he locked up the piano, put the key in his pocket, and set\nforth in quest of coffee. As he went, his mind trudged for the hundredth\ntime a certain mill-road of terrors, misgivings, and regrets. To call\nin the police, to give up the body, to cover London with handbills\ndescribing John Dickson and Ezra Thomas, to fill the papers with\nparagraphs, Mysterious Occurrence in the Temple--Mr Forsyth admitted to\nbail, this was one course, an easy course, a safe course; but not, the\nmore he reflected on it, not a pleasant one. For, was it not to publish\nabroad a number of singular facts about himself? A child ought to\nhave seen through the story of these adventurers, and he had gaped and\nswallowed it. A barrister of the least self-respect should have refused\nto listen to clients who came before him in a manner so irregular, and\nhe had listened. And O, if he had only listened; but he had gone upon\ntheir errand--he, a barrister, uninstructed even by the shadow of\na solicitor--upon an errand fit only for a private detective; and\nalas!--and for the hundredth time the blood surged to his brow--he had\ntaken their money! 'No,' said he, 'the thing is as plain as St Paul's. I\nshall be dishonoured! I have smashed my career for a five-pound note.'\n\nBetween the possibility of being hanged in all innocence, and the\ncertainty of a public and merited disgrace, no gentleman of spirit\ncould long hesitate. After three gulps of that hot, snuffy, and muddy\nbeverage, that passes on the streets of London for a decoction of the\ncoffee berry, Gideon's mind was made up. He would do without the police.\nHe must face the other side of the dilemma, and be Robert Skill in\nearnest. What would Robert Skill have done? How does a gentleman dispose\nof a dead body, honestly come by? He remembered the inimitable story\nof the hunchback; reviewed its course, and dismissed it for a worthless\nguide. It was impossible to prop a corpse on the corner of Tottenham\nCourt Road without arousing fatal curiosity in the bosoms of the\npassers-by; as for lowering it down a London chimney, the physical\nobstacles were insurmountable. To get it on board a train and drop it\nout, or on the top of an omnibus and drop it off, were equally out\nof the question. To get it on a yacht and drop it overboard, was more\nconceivable; but for a man of moderate means it seemed extravagant. The\nhire of the yacht was in itself a consideration; the subsequent support\nof the whole crew (which seemed a necessary consequence) was simply\nnot to be thought of. His uncle and the houseboat here occurred in very\nluminous colours to his mind. A musical composer (say, of the name of\nJimson) might very well suffer, like Hogarth's musician before him, from\nthe disturbances of London. He might very well be pressed for time to\nfinish an opera--say the comic opera Orange Pekoe--Orange Pekoe, music\nby Jimson--'this young maestro, one of the most promising of our\nrecent English school'--vigorous entrance of the drums, etc.--the whole\ncharacter of Jimson and his music arose in bulk before the mind of\nGideon. What more likely than Jimson's arrival with a grand piano (say,\nat Padwick), and his residence in a houseboat alone with the unfinished\nscore of Orange Pekoe? His subsequent disappearance, leaving nothing\nbehind but an empty piano case, it might be more difficult to account\nfor. And yet even that was susceptible of explanation. For, suppose\nJimson had gone mad over a fugal passage, and had thereupon destroyed\nthe accomplice of his infamy, and plunged into the welcome river? What\nend, on the whole, more probable for a modern musician?\n\n'By Jove, I'll do it,' cried Gideon. 'Jimson is the boy!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. The Maestro Jimson\n\nMr Edward Hugh Bloomfield having announced his intention to stay in the\nneighbourhood of Maidenhead, what more probable than that the Maestro\nJimson should turn his mind toward Padwick? Near this pleasant riverside\nvillage he remembered to have observed an ancient, weedy houseboat lying\nmoored beside a tuft of willows. It had stirred in him, in his careless\nhours, as he pulled down the river under a more familiar name, a certain\nsense of the romantic; and when the nice contrivance of his story was\nalready complete in his mind, he had come near pulling it all down\nagain, like an ungrateful clock, in order to introduce a chapter in\nwhich Richard Skill (who was always being decoyed somewhere) should\nbe decoyed on board that lonely hulk by Lord Bellew and the American\ndesperado Gin Sling. It was fortunate he had not done so, he reflected,\nsince the hulk was now required for very different purposes.\n\nJimson, a man of inconspicuous costume, but insinuating manners,\nhad little difficulty in finding the hireling who had charge of the\nhouseboat, and still less in persuading him to resign his care. The rent\nwas almost nominal, the entry immediate, the key was exchanged against a\nsuitable advance in money, and Jimson returned to town by the afternoon\ntrain to see about dispatching his piano.\n\n'I will be down tomorrow,' he had said reassuringly. 'My opera is waited\nfor with such impatience, you know.'\n\nAnd, sure enough, about the hour of noon on the following day, Jimson\nmight have been observed ascending the riverside road that goes from\nPadwick to Great Haverham, carrying in one hand a basket of provisions,\nand under the other arm a leather case containing (it is to be\nconjectured) the score of Orange Pekoe. It was October weather; the\nstone-grey sky was full of larks, the leaden mirror of the Thames\nbrightened with autumnal foliage, and the fallen leaves of the chestnuts\nchirped under the composer's footing. There is no time of the year\nin England more courageous; and Jimson, though he was not without his\ntroubles, whistled as he went.\n\nA little above Padwick the river lies very solitary. On the opposite\nshore the trees of a private park enclose the view, the chimneys of the\nmansion just pricking forth above their clusters; on the near side the\npath is bordered by willows. Close among these lay the houseboat, a\nthing so soiled by the tears of the overhanging willows, so grown upon\nwith parasites, so decayed, so battered, so neglected, such a haunt of\nrats, so advertised a storehouse of rheumatic agonies, that the heart\nof an intending occupant might well recoil. A plank, by way of flying\ndrawbridge, joined it to the shore. And it was a dreary moment for\nJimson when he pulled this after him and found himself alone on this\nunwholesome fortress. He could hear the rats scuttle and flop in the\nabhorred interior; the key cried among the wards like a thing in pain;\nthe sitting-room was deep in dust, and smelt strong of bilge-water. It\ncould not be called a cheerful spot, even for a composer absorbed in\nbeloved toil; how much less for a young gentleman haunted by alarms and\nawaiting the arrival of a corpse!\n\nHe sat down, cleared away a piece of the table, and attacked the cold\nluncheon in his basket. In case of any subsequent inquiry into the fate\nof Jimson, It was desirable he should be little seen: in other words,\nthat he should spend the day entirely in the house. To this end, and\nfurther to corroborate his fable, he had brought in the leather case not\nonly writing materials, but a ream of large-size music paper, such as he\nconsidered suitable for an ambitious character like Jimson's. 'And now\nto work,' said he, when he had satisfied his appetite. 'We must leave\ntraces of the wretched man's activity.' And he wrote in bold characters:\n\n ORANGE PEKOE.\n Op. 17.\n J. B. JIMSON.\n Vocal and p. f. score.\n\n'I suppose they never do begin like this,' reflected Gideon; 'but then\nit's quite out of the question for me to tackle a full score, and\nJimson was so unconventional. A dedication would be found convincing, I\nbelieve. \"Dedicated to\" (let me see) \"to William Ewart Gladstone, by his\nobedient servant the composer.\" And now some music: I had better avoid\nthe overture; it seems to present difficulties. Let's give an air for\nthe tenor: key--O, something modern!--seven sharps.' And he made a\nbusinesslike signature across the staves, and then paused and browsed\nfor a while on the handle of his pen. Melody, with no better inspiration\nthan a sheet of paper, is not usually found to spring unbidden in the\nmind of the amateur; nor is the key of seven sharps a place of much\nrepose to the untried. He cast away that sheet. 'It will help to build\nup the character of Jimson,' Gideon remarked, and again waited on\nthe muse, in various keys and on divers sheets of paper, but all with\nresults so inconsiderable that he stood aghast. 'It's very odd,' thought\nhe. 'I seem to have less fancy than I thought, or this is an off-day\nwith me; yet Jimson must leave something.' And again he bent himself to\nthe task.\n\nPresently the penetrating chill of the houseboat began to attack the\nvery seat of life. He desisted from his unremunerative trial, and, to\nthe audible annoyance of the rats, walked briskly up and down the cabin.\nStill he was cold. 'This is all nonsense,' said he. 'I don't care about\nthe risk, but I will not catch a catarrh. I must get out of this den.'\n\nHe stepped on deck, and passing to the bow of his embarkation, looked\nfor the first time up the river. He started. Only a few hundred yards\nabove another houseboat lay moored among the willows. It was very\nspick-and-span, an elegant canoe hung at the stern, the windows were\nconcealed by snowy curtains, a flag floated from a staff. The more\nGideon looked at it, the more there mingled with his disgust a sense\nof impotent surprise. It was very like his uncle's houseboat; it was\nexceedingly like--it was identical. But for two circumstances, he\ncould have sworn it was the same. The first, that his uncle had gone to\nMaidenhead, might be explained away by that flightiness of purpose which\nis so common a trait among the more than usually manly. The second,\nhowever, was conclusive: it was not in the least like Mr Bloomfield to\ndisplay a banner on his floating residence; and if he ever did, it\nwould certainly be dyed in hues of emblematical propriety. Now the\nSquirradical, like the vast majority of the more manly, had drawn\nknowledge at the wells of Cambridge--he was wooden spoon in the year\n1850; and the flag upon the houseboat streamed on the afternoon air with\nthe colours of that seat of Toryism, that cradle of Puseyism, that\nhome of the inexact and the effete Oxford. Still it was strangely like,\nthought Gideon.\n\nAnd as he thus looked and thought, the door opened, and a young lady\nstepped forth on deck. The barrister dropped and fled into his cabin--it\nwas Julia Hazeltine! Through the window he watched her draw in the\ncanoe, get on board of it, cast off, and come dropping downstream in his\ndirection.\n\n'Well, all is up now,' said he, and he fell on a seat.\n\n'Good-afternoon, miss,' said a voice on the water. Gideon knew it for\nthe voice of his landlord.\n\n'Good-afternoon,' replied Julia, 'but I don't know who you are; do I? O\nyes, I do though. You are the nice man that gave us leave to sketch from\nthe old houseboat.'\n\nGideon's heart leaped with fear.\n\n'That's it,' returned the man. 'And what I wanted to say was as you\ncouldn't do it any more. You see I've let it.'\n\n'Let it!' cried Julia.\n\n'Let it for a month,' said the man. 'Seems strange, don't it? Can't see\nwhat the party wants with it?'\n\n'It seems very romantic of him, I think,' said Julia, 'What sort of a\nperson is he?'\n\nJulia in her canoe, the landlord in his wherry, were close alongside,\nand holding on by the gunwale of the houseboat; so that not a word was\nlost on Gideon.\n\n'He's a music-man,' said the landlord, 'or at least that's what he told\nme, miss; come down here to write an op'ra.'\n\n'Really!' cried Julia, 'I never heard of anything so delightful! Why, we\nshall be able to slip down at night and hear him improvise! What is his\nname?'\n\n'Jimson,' said the man.\n\n'Jimson?' repeated Julia, and interrogated her memory in vain. But\nindeed our rising school of English music boasts so many professors that\nwe rarely hear of one till he is made a baronet. 'Are you sure you have\nit right?'\n\n'Made him spell it to me,' replied the landlord. 'J-I-M-S-O-N--Jimson;\nand his op'ra's called--some kind of tea.'\n\n'SOME KIND OF TEA!' cried the girl. 'What a very singular name for an\nopera! What can it be about?' And Gideon heard her pretty laughter flow\nabroad. 'We must try to get acquainted with this Mr Jimson; I feel sure\nhe must be nice.'\n\n'Well, miss, I'm afraid I must be going on. I've got to be at Haverham,\nyou see.'\n\n'O, don't let me keep you, you kind man!' said Julia. 'Good afternoon.'\n\n'Good afternoon to you, miss.'\n\nGideon sat in the cabin a prey to the most harrowing thoughts. Here he\nwas anchored to a rotting houseboat, soon to be anchored to it still\nmore emphatically by the presence of the corpse, and here was the\ncountry buzzing about him, and young ladies already proposing pleasure\nparties to surround his house at night. Well, that meant the gallows;\nand much he cared for that. What troubled him now was Julia's\nindescribable levity. That girl would scrape acquaintance with anybody;\nshe had no reserve, none of the enamel of the lady. She was familiar\nwith a brute like his landlord; she took an immediate interest (which\nshe lacked even the delicacy to conceal) in a creature like Jimson! He\ncould conceive her asking Jimson to have tea with her! And it was for a\ngirl like this that a man like Gideon--Down, manly heart!\n\nHe was interrupted by a sound that sent him whipping behind the door in\na trice. Miss Hazeltine had stepped on board the houseboat. Her sketch\nwas promising; judging from the stillness, she supposed Jimson not yet\ncome; and she had decided to seize occasion and complete the work\nof art. Down she sat therefore in the bow, produced her block and\nwater-colours, and was soon singing over (what used to be called) the\nladylike accomplishment. Now and then indeed her song was interrupted,\nas she searched in her memory for some of the odious little receipts\nby means of which the game is practised--or used to be practised in the\nbrave days of old; they say the world, and those ornaments of the world,\nyoung ladies, are become more sophisticated now; but Julia had probably\nstudied under Pitman, and she stood firm in the old ways.\n\nGideon, meanwhile, stood behind the door, afraid to move, afraid to\nbreathe, afraid to think of what must follow, racked by confinement and\nborne to the ground with tedium. This particular phase, he felt with\ngratitude, could not last for ever; whatever impended (even the gallows,\nhe bitterly and perhaps erroneously reflected) could not fail to be\na relief. To calculate cubes occurred to him as an ingenious and even\nprofitable refuge from distressing thoughts, and he threw his manhood\ninto that dreary exercise.\n\nThus, then, were these two young persons occupied--Gideon attacking the\nperfect number with resolution; Julia vigorously stippling incongruous\ncolours on her block, when Providence dispatched into these waters a\nsteam-launch asthmatically panting up the Thames. All along the banks\nthe water swelled and fell, and the reeds rustled. The houseboat itself,\nthat ancient stationary creature, became suddenly imbued with life, and\nrolled briskly at her moorings, like a sea-going ship when she begins\nto smell the harbour bar. The wash had nearly died away, and the quick\npanting of the launch sounded already faint and far off, when Gideon was\nstartled by a cry from Julia. Peering through the window, he beheld\nher staring disconsolately downstream at the fast-vanishing canoe.\nThe barrister (whatever were his faults) displayed on this occasion a\npromptitude worthy of his hero, Robert Skill; with one effort of his\nmind he foresaw what was about to follow; with one movement of his body\nhe dropped to the floor and crawled under the table.\n\nJulia, on her part, was not yet alive to her position. She saw she had\nlost the canoe, and she looked forward with something less than avidity\nto her next interview with Mr Bloomfield; but she had no idea that she\nwas imprisoned, for she knew of the plank bridge.\n\nShe made the circuit of the house, and found the door open and the\nbridge withdrawn. It was plain, then, that Jimson must have come;\nplain, too, that he must be on board. He must be a very shy man to\nhave suffered this invasion of his residence, and made no sign; and her\ncourage rose higher at the thought. He must come now, she must force him\nfrom his privacy, for the plank was too heavy for her single strength;\nso she tapped upon the open door. Then she tapped again.\n\n'Mr Jimson,' she cried, 'Mr Jimson! here, come!--you must come, you\nknow, sooner or later, for I can't get off without you. O, don't be so\nexceedingly silly! O, please, come!'\n\nStill there was no reply.\n\n'If he is here he must be mad,' she thought, with a little fear. And the\nnext moment she remembered he had probably gone aboard like herself in\na boat. In that case she might as well see the houseboat, and she pushed\nopen the door and stepped in. Under the table, where he lay smothered\nwith dust, Gideon's heart stood still.\n\nThere were the remains of Jimson's lunch. 'He likes rather nice things\nto eat,' she thought. 'O, I am sure he is quite a delightful man. I\nwonder if he is as good-looking as Mr Forsyth. Mrs Jimson--I don't\nbelieve it sounds as nice as Mrs Forsyth; but then \"Gideon\" is so really\nodious! And here is some of his music too; this is delightful. Orange\nPekoe--O, that's what he meant by some kind of tea.' And she trilled\nwith laughter. 'Adagio molto espressivo, sempre legato,' she read\nnext. (For the literary part of a composer's business Gideon was well\nequipped.) 'How very strange to have all these directions, and\nonly three or four notes! O, here's another with some more. Andante\npatetico.' And she began to glance over the music. 'O dear me,' she\nthought, 'he must be terribly modern! It all seems discords to me. Let's\ntry the air. It is very strange, it seems familiar.' She began to sing\nit, and suddenly broke off with laughter. 'Why, it's \"Tommy make room\nfor your Uncle!\"' she cried aloud, so that the soul of Gideon was filled\nwith bitterness. 'Andante patetico, indeed! The man must be a mere\nimpostor.'\n\nAnd just at this moment there came a confused, scuffling sound from\nunderneath the table; a strange note, like that of a barn-door fowl,\nushered in a most explosive sneeze; the head of the sufferer was at\nthe same time brought smartly in contact with the boards above; and the\nsneeze was followed by a hollow groan.\n\nJulia fled to the door, and there, with the salutary instinct of the\nbrave, turned and faced the danger. There was no pursuit. The sounds\ncontinued; below the table a crouching figure was indistinctly to be\nseen jostled by the throes of a sneezing-fit; and that was all.\n\n'Surely,' thought Julia, 'this is most unusual behaviour. He cannot be a\nman of the world!'\n\nMeanwhile the dust of years had been disturbed by the young barrister's\nconvulsions; and the sneezing-fit was succeeded by a passionate access\nof coughing.\n\nJulia began to feel a certain interest. 'I am afraid you are really\nquite ill,' she said, drawing a little nearer. 'Please don't let me put\nyou out, and do not stay under that table, Mr Jimson. Indeed it cannot\nbe good for you.'\n\nMr Jimson only answered by a distressing cough; and the next moment\nthe girl was on her knees, and their faces had almost knocked together\nunder the table.\n\n'O, my gracious goodness!' exclaimed Miss Hazeltine, and sprang to her\nfeet. 'Mr Forsyth gone mad!'\n\n'I am not mad,' said the gentleman ruefully, extricating himself from\nhis position. 'Dearest. Miss Hazeltine, I vow to you upon my knees I am\nnot mad!'\n\n'You are not!' she cried, panting.\n\n'I know,' he said, 'that to a superficial eye my conduct may appear\nunconventional.'\n\n'If you are not mad, it was no conduct at all,' cried the girl, with\na flash of colour, 'and showed you did not care one penny for my\nfeelings!'\n\n'This is the very devil and all. I know--I admit that,' cried Gideon,\nwith a great effort of manly candour.\n\n'It was abominable conduct!' said Julia, with energy.\n\n'I know it must have shaken your esteem,' said the barrister. 'But,\ndearest Miss Hazeltine, I beg of you to hear me out; my behaviour,\nstrange as it may seem, is not unsusceptible of explanation; and I\npositively cannot and will not consent to continue to try to exist\nwithout--without the esteem of one whom I admire--the moment is ill\nchosen, I am well aware of that; but I repeat the expression--one whom I\nadmire.'\n\nA touch of amusement appeared on Miss Hazeltine's face. 'Very well,'\nsaid she, 'come out of this dreadfully cold place, and let us sit down\non deck.' The barrister dolefully followed her. 'Now,' said she, making\nherself comfortable against the end of the house, 'go on. I will hear\nyou out.' And then, seeing him stand before her with so much obvious\ndisrelish to the task, she was suddenly overcome with laughter. Julia's\nlaugh was a thing to ravish lovers; she rolled her mirthful descant with\nthe freedom and the melody of a blackbird's song upon the river, and\nrepeated by the echoes of the farther bank. It seemed a thing in its own\nplace and a sound native to the open air. There was only one creature\nwho heard it without joy, and that was her unfortunate admirer.\n\n'Miss Hazeltine,' he said, in a voice that tottered with annoyance, 'I\nspeak as your sincere well-wisher, but this can only be called levity.'\n\nJulia made great eyes at him.\n\n'I can't withdraw the word,' he said: 'already the freedom with which I\nheard you hobnobbing with a boatman gave me exquisite pain. Then there\nwas a want of reserve about Jimson--'\n\n'But Jimson appears to be yourself,' objected Julia.\n\n'I am far from denying that,' cried the barrister, 'but you did not\nknow it at the time. What could Jimson be to you? Who was Jimson? Miss\nHazeltine, it cut me to the heart.'\n\n'Really this seems to me to be very silly,' returned Julia, with severe\ndecision. 'You have behaved in the most extraordinary manner; you\npretend you are able to explain your conduct, and instead of doing so\nyou begin to attack me.'\n\n'I am well aware of that,' replied Gideon. 'I--I will make a clean\nbreast of it. When you know all the circumstances you will be able to\nexcuse me.\n\nAnd sitting down beside her on the deck, he poured forth his miserable\nhistory.\n\n'O, Mr Forsyth,' she cried, when he had done, 'I am--so--sorry! wish\nI hadn't laughed at you--only you know you really were so exceedingly\nfunny. But I wish I hadn't, and I wouldn't either if I had only known.'\nAnd she gave him her hand.\n\nGideon kept it in his own. 'You do not think the worse of me for this?'\nhe asked tenderly.\n\n'Because you have been so silly and got into such dreadful trouble? you\npoor boy, no!' cried Julia; and, in the warmth of the moment, reached\nhim her other hand; 'you may count on me,' she added.\n\n'Really?' said Gideon.\n\n'Really and really!' replied the girl.\n\n'I do then, and I will,' cried the young man. 'I admit the moment is not\nwell chosen; but I have no friends--to speak of.'\n\n'No more have I,' said Julia. 'But don't you think it's perhaps time you\ngave me back my hands?'\n\n'La ci darem la mano,' said the barrister, 'the merest moment more! I\nhave so few friends,' he added.\n\n'I thought it was considered such a bad account of a young man to have\nno friends,' observed Julia.\n\n'O, but I have crowds of FRIENDS!' cried Gideon. 'That's not what I\nmean. I feel the moment is ill chosen; but O, Julia, if you could only\nsee yourself!'\n\n'Mr Forsyth--'\n\n'Don't call me by that beastly name!' cried the youth. 'Call me Gideon!'\n\n'O, never that,' from Julia. 'Besides, we have known each other such a\nshort time.'\n\n'Not at all!' protested Gideon. 'We met at Bournemouth ever so long ago.\nI never forgot you since. Say you never forgot me. Say you never forgot\nme, and call me Gideon!'\n\n'Isn't this rather--a want of reserve about Jimson?' enquired the girl.\n\n'O, I know I am an ass,' cried the barrister, 'and I don't care a\nhalfpenny! I know I'm an ass, and you may laugh at me to your heart's\ndelight.' And as Julia's lips opened with a smile, he once more dropped\ninto music. 'There's the Land of Cherry Isle!' he sang, courting her\nwith his eyes.\n\n'It's like an opera,' said Julia, rather faintly.\n\n'What should it be?' said Gideon. 'Am I not Jimson? It would be strange\nif I did not serenade my love. O yes, I mean the word, my Julia; and I\nmean to win you. I am in dreadful trouble, and I have not a penny of\nmy own, and I have cut the silliest figure; and yet I mean to win you,\nJulia. Look at me, if you can, and tell me no!'\n\nShe looked at him; and whatever her eyes may have told him, it is to be\nsupposed he took a pleasure in the message, for he read it a long while.\n\n'And Uncle Ned will give us some money to go on upon in the meanwhile,'\nhe said at last.\n\n'Well, I call that cool!' said a cheerful voice at his elbow.\n\nGideon and Julia sprang apart with wonderful alacrity; the latter\nannoyed to observe that although they had never moved since they sat\ndown, they were now quite close together; both presenting faces of a\nvery heightened colour to the eyes of Mr Edward Hugh Bloomfield. That\ngentleman, coming up the river in his boat, had captured the truant\ncanoe, and divining what had happened, had thought to steal a march upon\nMiss Hazeltine at her sketch. He had unexpectedly brought down two birds\nwith one stone; and as he looked upon the pair of flushed and breathless\nculprits, the pleasant human instinct of the matchmaker softened his\nheart.\n\n'Well, I call that cool,' he repeated; 'you seem to count very securely\nupon Uncle Ned. But look here, Gid, I thought I had told you to keep\naway?'\n\n'To keep away from Maidenhead,' replied Gid. 'But how should I expect to\nfind you here?'\n\n'There is something in that,' Mr Bloomfield admitted. 'You see I thought\nit better that even you should be ignorant of my address; those rascals,\nthe Finsburys, would have wormed it out of you. And just to put them off\nthe scent I hoisted these abominable colours. But that is not all,\nGid; you promised me to work, and here I find you playing the fool at\nPadwick.'\n\n'Please, Mr Bloomfield, you must not be hard on Mr Forsyth,' said Julia.\n'Poor boy, he is in dreadful straits.'\n\n'What's this, Gid?' enquired the uncle. 'Have you been fighting? or is\nit a bill?'\n\nThese, in the opinion of the Squirradical, were the two misfortunes\nincident to gentlemen; and indeed both were culled from his own career.\nHe had once put his name (as a matter of form) on a friend's paper; it\nhad cost him a cool thousand; and the friend had gone about with the\nfear of death upon him ever since, and never turned a corner without\nscouting in front of him for Mr Bloomfield and the oaken staff. As for\nfighting, the Squirradical was always on the brink of it; and once, when\n(in the character of president of a Radical club) he had cleared out\nthe hall of his opponents, things had gone even further. Mr Holtum,\nthe Conservative candidate, who lay so long on the bed of sickness, was\nprepared to swear to Mr Bloomfield. 'I will swear to it in any court--it\nwas the hand of that brute that struck me down,' he was reported to have\nsaid; and when he was thought to be sinking, it was known that he had\nmade an ante-mortem statement in that sense. It was a cheerful day for\nthe Squirradical when Holtum was restored to his brewery.\n\n'It's much worse than that,' said Gideon; 'a combination of\ncircumstances really providentially unjust--a--in fact, a syndicate of\nmurderers seem to have perceived my latent ability to rid them of the\ntraces of their crime. It's a legal study after all, you see!' And with\nthese words, Gideon, for the second time that day, began to describe the\nadventures of the Broadwood Grand.\n\n'I must write to The Times,' cried Mr Bloomfield.\n\n'Do you want to get me disbarred?' asked Gideon.\n\n'Disbarred! Come, it can't be as bad as that,' said his uncle. 'It's\na good, honest, Liberal Government that's in, and they would certainly\nmove at my request. Thank God, the days of Tory jobbery are at an end.'\n\n'It wouldn't do, Uncle Ned,' said Gideon.\n\n'But you're not mad enough,' cried Mr Bloomfield, 'to persist in trying\nto dispose of it yourself?'\n\n'There is no other path open to me,' said Gideon.\n\n'It's not common sense, and I will not hear of it,' cried Mr Bloomfield.\n'I command you, positively, Gid, to desist from this criminal\ninterference.'\n\n'Very well, then, I hand it over to you,' said Gideon, 'and you can do\nwhat you like with the dead body.'\n\n'God forbid!' ejaculated the president of the Radical Club, 'I'll have\nnothing to do with it.'\n\n'Then you must allow me to do the best I can,' returned his nephew.\n'Believe me, I have a distinct talent for this sort of difficulty.'\n\n'We might forward it to that pest-house, the Conservative Club,'\nobserved Mr Bloomfield. 'It might damage them in the eyes of their\nconstituents; and it could be profitably worked up in the local\njournal.'\n\n'If you see any political capital in the thing,' said Gideon, 'you may\nhave it for me.'\n\n'No, no, Gid--no, no, I thought you might. I will have no hand in the\nthing. On reflection, it's highly undesirable that either I or Miss\nHazeltine should linger here. We might be observed,' said the\npresident, looking up and down the river; 'and in my public position\nthe consequences would be painful for the party. And, at any rate, it's\ndinner-time.'\n\n'What?' cried Gideon, plunging for his watch. 'And so it is! Great\nheaven, the piano should have been here hours ago!'\n\nMr Bloomfield was clambering back into his boat; but at these words he\npaused.\n\n'I saw it arrive myself at the station; I hired a carrier man; he had a\nround to make, but he was to be here by four at the latest,' cried the\nbarrister. 'No doubt the piano is open, and the body found.'\n\n'You must fly at once,' cried Mr Bloomfield, 'it's the only manly step.'\n\n'But suppose it's all right?' wailed Gideon. 'Suppose the piano comes,\nand I am not here to receive it? I shall have hanged myself by my\ncowardice. No, Uncle Ned, enquiries must be made in Padwick; I dare\nnot go, of course; but you may--you could hang about the police office,\ndon't you see?'\n\n'No, Gid--no, my dear nephew,' said Mr Bloomfield, with the voice of one\non the rack. 'I regard you with the most sacred affection; and I thank\nGod I am an Englishman--and all that. But not--not the police, Gid.'\n\n'Then you desert me?' said Gideon. 'Say it plainly.'\n\n'Far from it! far from it!' protested Mr Bloomfield. 'I only propose\ncaution. Common sense, Gid, should always be an Englishman's guide.'\n\n'Will you let me speak?' said Julia. 'I think Gideon had better leave\nthis dreadful houseboat, and wait among the willows over there. If the\npiano comes, then he could step out and take it in; and if the police\ncome, he could slip into our houseboat, and there needn't be any\nmore Jimson at all. He could go to bed, and we could burn his clothes\n(couldn't we?) in the steam-launch; and then really it seems as if it\nwould be all right. Mr Bloomfield is so respectable, you know, and such\na leading character, it would be quite impossible even to fancy that he\ncould be mixed up with it.'\n\n'This young lady has strong common sense,' said the Squirradical.\n\n'O, I don't think I'm at all a fool,' said Julia, with conviction.\n\n'But what if neither of them come?' asked Gideon; 'what shall I do\nthen?'\n\n'Why then,' said she, 'you had better go down to the village after dark;\nand I can go with you, and then I am sure you could never be suspected;\nand even if you were, I could tell them it was altogether a mistake.'\n\n'I will not permit that--I will not suffer Miss Hazeltine to go,' cried\nMr Bloomfield.\n\n'Why?' asked Julia.\n\nMr Bloomfield had not the least desire to tell her why, for it was\nsimply a craven fear of being drawn himself into the imbroglio; but with\nthe usual tactics of a man who is ashamed of himself, he took the high\nhand. 'God forbid, my dear Miss Hazeltine, that I should dictate to a\nlady on the question of propriety--' he began.\n\n'O, is that all?' interrupted Julia. 'Then we must go all three.'\n\n'Caught!' thought the Squirradical.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. Positively the Last Appearance of the Broadwood Grand\n\nEngland is supposed to be unmusical; but without dwelling on the\npatronage extended to the organ-grinder, without seeking to found any\nargument on the prevalence of the jew's trump, there is surely one\ninstrument that may be said to be national in the fullest acceptance\nof the word. The herdboy in the broom, already musical in the days of\nFather Chaucer, startles (and perhaps pains) the lark with this exiguous\npipe; and in the hands of the skilled bricklayer,\n\n'The thing becomes a trumpet, whence he blows'\n\n(as a general rule) either 'The British Grenadiers' or 'Cherry Ripe'.\nThe latter air is indeed the shibboleth and diploma piece of the\npenny whistler; I hazard a guess it was originally composed for this\ninstrument. It is singular enough that a man should be able to gain\na livelihood, or even to tide over a period of unemployment, by the\ndisplay of his proficiency upon the penny whistle; still more so, that\nthe professional should almost invariably confine himself to 'Cherry\nRipe'. But indeed, singularities surround the subject, thick like\nblackberries. Why, for instance, should the pipe be called a penny\nwhistle? I think no one ever bought it for a penny. Why should the\nalternative name be tin whistle? I am grossly deceived if it be made\nof tin. Lastly, in what deaf catacomb, in what earless desert, does the\nbeginner pass the excruciating interval of his apprenticeship? We have\nall heard people learning the piano, the fiddle, and the cornet; but\nthe young of the penny whistler (like that of the salmon) is occult from\nobservation; he is never heard until proficient; and providence (perhaps\nalarmed by the works of Mr Mallock) defends human hearing from his first\nattempts upon the upper octave.\n\nA really noteworthy thing was taking place in a green lane, not far from\nPadwick. On the bench of a carrier's cart there sat a tow-headed, lanky,\nmodest-looking youth; the reins were on his lap; the whip lay behind\nhim in the interior of the cart; the horse proceeded without guidance\nor encouragement; the carrier (or the carrier's man), rapt into a higher\nsphere than that of his daily occupations, his looks dwelling on the\nskies, devoted himself wholly to a brand-new D penny whistle, whence he\ndiffidently endeavoured to elicit that pleasing melody 'The Ploughboy'.\nTo any observant person who should have chanced to saunter in that lane,\nthe hour would have been thrilling. 'Here at last,' he would have said,\n'is the beginner.'\n\nThe tow-headed youth (whose name was Harker) had just encored himself\nfor the nineteenth time, when he was struck into the extreme of\nconfusion by the discovery that he was not alone.\n\n'There you have it!' cried a manly voice from the side of the road.\n\n'That's as good as I want to hear. Perhaps a leetle oilier in the run,'\nthe voice suggested, with meditative gusto. 'Give it us again.'\n\nHarker glanced, from the depths of his humiliation, at the speaker. He\nbeheld a powerful, sun-brown, clean-shaven fellow, about forty years of\nage, striding beside the cart with a non-commissioned military bearing,\nand (as he strode) spinning in the air a cane. The fellow's clothes were\nvery bad, but he looked clean and self-reliant.\n\n'I'm only a beginner,' gasped the blushing Harker, 'I didn't think\nanybody could hear me.'\n\n'Well, I like that!' returned the other. 'You're a pretty old beginner.\nCome, I'll give you a lead myself. Give us a seat here beside you.'\n\nThe next moment the military gentleman was perched on the cart, pipe in\nhand. He gave the instrument a knowing rattle on the shaft, mouthed it,\nappeared to commune for a moment with the muse, and dashed into 'The\ngirl I left behind me'. He was a great, rather than a fine, performer;\nhe lacked the bird-like richness; he could scarce have extracted all\nthe honey out of 'Cherry Ripe'; he did not fear--he even ostentatiously\ndisplayed and seemed to revel in he shrillness of the instrument; but\nin fire, speed, precision, evenness, and fluency; in linked agility of\njimmy--a technical expression, by your leave, answering to warblers on\nthe bagpipe; and perhaps, above all, in that inspiring side-glance of\nthe eye, with which he followed the effect and (as by a human appeal)\neked out the insufficiency of his performance: in these, the fellow\nstood without a rival. Harker listened: 'The girl I left behind me'\nfilled him with despair; 'The Soldier's Joy' carried him beyond jealousy\ninto generous enthusiasm.\n\n'Turn about,' said the military gentleman, offering the pipe.\n\n'O, not after you!' cried Harker; 'you're a professional.'\n\n'No,' said his companion; 'an amatyure like yourself. That's one style\nof play, yours is the other, and I like it best. But I began when I was\na boy, you see, before my taste was formed. When you're my age you'll\nplay that thing like a cornet-a-piston. Give us that air again; how does\nit go?' and he affected to endeavour to recall 'The Ploughboy'.\n\nA timid, insane hope sprang in the breast of Harker. Was it possible?\nWas there something in his playing? It had, indeed, seemed to him at\ntimes as if he got a kind of a richness out of it. Was he a genius?\nMeantime the military gentleman stumbled over the air.\n\n'No,' said the unhappy Harker, 'that's not quite it. It goes this\nway--just to show you.'\n\nAnd, taking the pipe between his lips, he sealed his doom. When he had\nplayed the air, and then a second time, and a third; when the military\ngentleman had tried it once more, and once more failed; when it became\nclear to Harker that he, the blushing debutant, was actually giving a\nlesson to this full-grown flutist--and the flutist under his care was\nnot very brilliantly progressing--how am I to tell what floods of glory\nbrightened the autumnal countryside; how, unless the reader were an\namateur himself, describe the heights of idiotic vanity to which\nthe carrier climbed? One significant fact shall paint the situation:\nthenceforth it was Harker who played, and the military gentleman\nlistened and approved.\n\nAs he listened, however, he did not forget the habit of soldierly\nprecaution, looking both behind and before. He looked behind and\ncomputed the value of the carrier's load, divining the contents of the\nbrown-paper parcels and the portly hamper, and briefly setting down the\ngrand piano in the brand-new piano-case as 'difficult to get rid of'.\nHe looked before, and spied at the corner of the green lane a little\ncountry public-house embowered in roses. 'I'll have a shy at it,'\nconcluded the military gentleman, and roundly proposed a glass. 'Well,\nI'm not a drinking man,' said Harker.\n\n'Look here, now,' cut in the other, 'I'll tell you who I am: I'm\nColour-Sergeant Brand of the Blankth. That'll tell you if I'm a drinking\nman or not.' It might and it might not, thus a Greek chorus would have\nintervened, and gone on to point out how very far it fell short of\ntelling why the sergeant was tramping a country lane in tatters; or even\nto argue that he must have pretermitted some while ago his labours for\nthe general defence, and (in the interval) possibly turned his attention\nto oakum. But there was no Greek chorus present; and the man of war went\non to contend that drinking was one thing and a friendly glass another.\n\nIn the Blue Lion, which was the name of the country public-house,\nColour-Sergeant Brand introduced his new friend, Mr Harker, to a\nnumber of ingenious mixtures, calculated to prevent the approaches of\nintoxication. These he explained to be 'rekisite' in the service, so\nthat a self-respecting officer should always appear upon parade in a\ncondition honourable to his corps. The most efficacious of these devices\nwas to lace a pint of mild ale with twopenceworth of London gin. I am\npleased to hand in this recipe to the discerning reader, who may find\nit useful even in civil station; for its effect upon Mr Harker was\nrevolutionary. He must be helped on board his own waggon, where he\nproceeded to display a spirit entirely given over to mirth and music,\nalternately hooting with laughter, to which the sergeant hastened to\nbear chorus, and incoherently tootling on the pipe. The man of war,\nmeantime, unostentatiously possessed himself of the reins. It was plain\nhe had a taste for the secluded beauties of an English landscape; for\nthe cart, although it wandered under his guidance for some time, was\nnever observed to issue on the dusty highway, journeying between hedge\nand ditch, and for the most part under overhanging boughs. It was plain,\nbesides, he had an eye to the true interests of Mr Harker; for though\nthe cart drew up more than once at the doors of public-houses, it was\nonly the sergeant who set foot to ground, and, being equipped himself\nwith a quart bottle, once more proceeded on his rural drive.\n\nTo give any idea of the complexity of the sergeant's course, a map of\nthat part of Middlesex would be required, and my publisher is averse\nfrom the expense. Suffice it, that a little after the night had closed,\nthe cart was brought to a standstill in a woody road; where the sergeant\nlifted from among the parcels, and tenderly deposited upon the wayside,\nthe inanimate form of Harker.\n\n'If you come-to before daylight,' thought the sergeant, 'I shall be\nsurprised for one.'\n\nFrom the various pockets of the slumbering carrier he gently collected\nthe sum of seventeen shillings and eightpence sterling; and, getting\nonce more into the cart, drove thoughtfully away.\n\n'If I was exactly sure of where I was, it would be a good job,' he\nreflected. 'Anyway, here's a corner.'\n\nHe turned it, and found himself upon the riverside. A little above him\nthe lights of a houseboat shone cheerfully; and already close at hand,\nso close that it was impossible to avoid their notice, three persons, a\nlady and two gentlemen, were deliberately drawing near. The sergeant put\nhis trust in the convenient darkness of the night, and drove on to meet\nthem. One of the gentlemen, who was of a portly figure, walked in the\nmidst of the fairway, and presently held up a staff by way of signal.\n\n'My man, have you seen anything of a carrier's cart?' he cried.\n\nDark as it was, it seemed to the sergeant as though the slimmer of\nthe two gentlemen had made a motion to prevent the other speaking, and\n(finding himself too late) had skipped aside with some alacrity. At\nanother season, Sergeant Brand would have paid more attention to the\nfact; but he was then immersed in the perils of his own predicament.\n\n'A carrier's cart?' said he, with a perceptible uncertainty of voice.\n'No, sir.'\n\n'Ah!' said the portly gentleman, and stood aside to let the sergeant\npass. The lady appeared to bend forward and study the cart with every\nmark of sharpened curiosity, the slimmer gentleman still keeping in the\nrear.\n\n'I wonder what the devil they would be at,' thought Sergeant Brand; and,\nlooking fearfully back, he saw the trio standing together in the midst\nof the way, like folk consulting. The bravest of military heroes are\nnot always equal to themselves as to their reputation; and fear, on some\nsingular provocation, will find a lodgment in the most unfamiliar bosom.\nThe word 'detective' might have been heard to gurgle in the sergeant's\nthroat; and vigorously applying the whip, he fled up the riverside road\nto Great Haverham, at the gallop of the carrier's horse. The lights of\nthe houseboat flashed upon the flying waggon as it passed; the beat of\nhoofs and the rattle of the vehicle gradually coalesced and died away;\nand presently, to the trio on the riverside, silence had redescended.\n\n'It's the most extraordinary thing,' cried the slimmer of the two\ngentlemen, 'but that's the cart.'\n\n'And I know I saw a piano,' said the girl.\n\n'O, it's the cart, certainly; and the extraordinary thing is, it's not\nthe man,' added the first.\n\n'It must be the man, Gid, it must be,' said the portly one.\n\n'Well, then, why is he running away?' asked Gideon.\n\n'His horse bolted, I suppose,' said the Squirradical.\n\n'Nonsense! I heard the whip going like a flail,' said Gideon. 'It simply\ndefies the human reason.'\n\n'I'll tell you,' broke in the girl, 'he came round that corner. Suppose\nwe went and--what do you call it in books?--followed his trail? There\nmay be a house there, or somebody who saw him, or something.'\n\n'Well, suppose we did, for the fun of the thing,' said Gideon.\n\nThe fun of the thing (it would appear) consisted in the extremely close\njuxtaposition of himself and Miss Hazeltine. To Uncle Ned, who was\nexcluded from these simple pleasures, the excursion appeared hopeless\nfrom the first; and when a fresh perspective of darkness opened up,\ndimly contained between park palings on the one side and a hedge and\nditch upon the other, the whole without the smallest signal of human\nhabitation, the Squirradical drew up.\n\n'This is a wild-goose chase,' said he.\n\nWith the cessation of the footfalls, another sound smote upon their\nears.\n\n'O, what's that?' cried Julia.\n\n'I can't think,' said Gideon.\n\nThe Squirradical had his stick presented like a sword. 'Gid,' he began,\n'Gid, I--'\n\n'O Mr Forsyth!' cried the girl. 'O don't go forward, you don't know what\nit might be--it might be something perfectly horrid.'\n\n'It may be the devil itself,' said Gideon, disengaging himself, 'but I\nam going to see it.'\n\n'Don't be rash, Gid,' cried his uncle.\n\nThe barrister drew near to the sound, which was certainly of a\nportentous character. In quality it appeared to blend the strains of\nthe cow, the fog-horn, and the mosquito; and the startling manner of its\nenunciation added incalculably to its terrors. A dark object, not unlike\nthe human form divine, appeared on the brink of the ditch.\n\n'It's a man,' said Gideon, 'it's only a man; he seems to be asleep and\nsnoring. Hullo,' he added, a moment after, 'there must be something\nwrong with him, he won't waken.'\n\nGideon produced his vestas, struck one, and by its light recognized the\ntow head of Harker.\n\n'This is the man,' said he, 'as drunk as Belial. I see the whole story';\nand to his two companions, who had now ventured to rejoin him, he set\nforth a theory of the divorce between the carrier and his cart, which\nwas not unlike the truth.\n\n'Drunken brute!' said Uncle Ned, 'let's get him to a pump and give him\nwhat he deserves.'\n\n'Not at all!' said Gideon. 'It is highly undesirable he should see us\ntogether; and really, do you know, I am very much obliged to him, for\nthis is about the luckiest thing that could have possibly occurred. It\nseems to me--Uncle Ned, I declare to heaven it seems to me--I'm clear of\nit!'\n\n'Clear of what?' asked the Squirradical.\n\n'The whole affair!' cried Gideon. 'That man has been ass enough to steal\nthe cart and the dead body; what he hopes to do with it I neither know\nnor care. My hands are free, Jimson ceases; down with Jimson. Shake\nhands with me, Uncle Ned--Julia, darling girl, Julia, I--'\n\n'Gideon, Gideon!' said his uncle. 'O, it's all right, uncle, when\nwe're going to be married so soon,' said Gideon. 'You know you said so\nyourself in the houseboat.'\n\n'Did I?' said Uncle Ned; 'I am certain I said no such thing.'\n\n'Appeal to him, tell him he did, get on his soft side,' cried Gideon.\n'He's a real brick if you get on his soft side.'\n\n'Dear Mr Bloomfield,' said Julia, 'I know Gideon will be such a very\ngood boy, and he has promised me to do such a lot of law, and I will\nsee that he does too. And you know it is so very steadying to young men,\neverybody admits that; though, of course, I know I have no money, Mr\nBloomfield,' she added.\n\n'My dear young lady, as this rapscallion told you today on the boat,\nUncle Ned has plenty,' said the Squirradical, 'and I can never forget\nthat you have been shamefully defrauded. So as there's nobody looking,\nyou had better give your Uncle Ned a kiss. There, you rogue,' resumed\nMr Bloomfield, when the ceremony had been daintily performed, 'this very\npretty young lady is yours, and a vast deal more than you deserve. But\nnow, let us get back to the houseboat, get up steam on the launch, and\naway back to town.'\n\n'That's the thing!' cried Gideon; 'and tomorrow there will be no\nhouseboat, and no Jimson, and no carrier's cart, and no piano; and when\nHarker awakes on the ditchside, he may tell himself the whole affair has\nbeen a dream.'\n\n'Aha!' said Uncle Ned, 'but there's another man who will have a\ndifferent awakening. That fellow in the cart will find he has been too\nclever by half.'\n\n'Uncle Ned and Julia,' said Gideon, 'I am as happy as the King of\nTartary, my heart is like a threepenny-bit, my heels are like feathers;\nI am out of all my troubles, Julia's hand is in mine. Is this a time\nfor anything but handsome sentiments? Why, there's not room in me for\nanything that's not angelic! And when I think of that poor unhappy devil\nin the cart, I stand here in the night and cry with a single heart God\nhelp him!'\n\n'Amen,' said Uncle Ned.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. The Tribulations of Morris: Part the Second\n\nIn a really polite age of literature I would have scorned to cast my eye\nagain on the contortions of Morris. But the study is in the spirit of\nthe day; it presents, besides, features of a high, almost a repulsive,\nmorality; and if it should prove the means of preventing any respectable\nand inexperienced gentleman from plunging light-heartedly into crime,\neven political crime, this work will not have been penned in vain.\n\nHe rose on the morrow of his night with Michael, rose from the leaden\nslumber of distress, to find his hand tremulous, his eyes closed with\nrheum, his throat parched, and his digestion obviously paralysed.\n'Lord knows it's not from eating!' Morris thought; and as he dressed\nhe reconsidered his position under several heads. Nothing will so well\ndepict the troubled seas in which he was now voyaging as a review\nof these various anxieties. I have thrown them (for the reader's\nconvenience) into a certain order; but in the mind of one poor human\nequal they whirled together like the dust of hurricanes. With the same\nobliging preoccupation, I have put a name to each of his distresses;\nand it will be observed with pity that every individual item would have\ngraced and commended the cover of a railway novel.\n\nAnxiety the First: Where is the Body? or, The Mystery of Bent Pitman. It\nwas now manifestly plain that Bent Pitman (as was to be looked for from\nhis ominous appellation) belonged to the darker order of the criminal\nclass. An honest man would not have cashed the bill; a humane man would\nnot have accepted in silence the tragic contents of the water-butt; a\nman, who was not already up to the hilts in gore, would have lacked\nthe means of secretly disposing them. This process of reasoning left a\nhorrid image of the monster, Pitman. Doubtless he had long ago disposed\nof the body--dropping it through a trapdoor in his back kitchen, Morris\nsupposed, with some hazy recollection of a picture in a penny dreadful;\nand doubtless the man now lived in wanton splendour on the proceeds of\nthe bill. So far, all was peace. But with the profligate habits of a man\nlike Bent Pitman (who was no doubt a hunchback in the bargain), eight\nhundred pounds could be easily melted in a week. When they were gone,\nwhat would he be likely to do next? A hell-like voice in Morris's own\nbosom gave the answer: 'Blackmail me.'\n\nAnxiety the Second: The Fraud of the Tontine; or, Is my Uncle dead?\nThis, on which all Morris's hopes depended, was yet a question. He had\ntried to bully Teena; he had tried to bribe her; and nothing came of\nit. He had his moral conviction still; but you cannot blackmail a sharp\nlawyer on a moral conviction. And besides, since his interview with\nMichael, the idea wore a less attractive countenance. Was Michael\nthe man to be blackmailed? and was Morris the man to do it? Grave\nconsiderations. 'It's not that I'm afraid of him,' Morris so far\ncondescended to reassure himself; 'but I must be very certain of my\nground, and the deuce of it is, I see no way. How unlike is life to\nnovels! I wouldn't have even begun this business in a novel, but what\nI'd have met a dark, slouching fellow in the Oxford Road, who'd have\nbecome my accomplice, and known all about how to do it, and probably\nbroken into Michael's house at night and found nothing but a waxwork\nimage; and then blackmailed or murdered me. But here, in real life, I\nmight walk the streets till I dropped dead, and none of the criminal\nclasses would look near me. Though, to be sure, there is always Pitman,'\nhe added thoughtfully.\n\nAnxiety the Third: The Cottage at Browndean; or, The Underpaid\nAccomplice. For he had an accomplice, and that accomplice was blooming\nunseen in a damp cottage in Hampshire with empty pockets. What could be\ndone about that? He really ought to have sent him something; if it was\nonly a post-office order for five bob, enough to prove that he was kept\nin mind, enough to keep him in hope, beer, and tobacco. 'But what\nwould you have?' thought Morris; and ruefully poured into his hand\na half-crown, a florin, and eightpence in small change. For a man in\nMorris's position, at war with all society, and conducting, with the\nhand of inexperience, a widely ramified intrigue, the sum was already a\nderision. John would have to be doing; no mistake of that. 'But then,'\nasked the hell-like voice, 'how long is John likely to stand it?'\n\nAnxiety the Fourth: The Leather Business; or, The Shutters at Last: a\nTale of the City. On this head Morris had no news. He had not yet dared\nto visit the family concern; yet he knew he must delay no longer, and\nif anything had been wanted to sharpen this conviction, Michael's\nreferences of the night before rang ambiguously in his ear. Well and\ngood. To visit the city might be indispensable; but what was he to do\nwhen he was there? He had no right to sign in his own name; and, with\nall the will in the world, he seemed to lack the art of signing with\nhis uncle's. Under these circumstances, Morris could do nothing to\nprocrastinate the crash; and, when it came, when prying eyes began to be\napplied to every joint of his behaviour, two questions could not fail to\nbe addressed, sooner or later, to a speechless and perspiring insolvent.\nWhere is Mr Joseph Finsbury? and how about your visit to the bank?\nQuestions, how easy to put!--ye gods, how impossible to answer! The man\nto whom they should be addressed went certainly to gaol, and--eh! what\nwas this?--possibly to the gallows. Morris was trying to shave when this\nidea struck him, and he laid the razor down. Here (in Michael's words)\nwas the total disappearance of a valuable uncle; here was a time of\ninexplicable conduct on the part of a nephew who had been in bad\nblood with the old man any time these seven years; what a chance for a\njudicial blunder! 'But no,' thought Morris, 'they cannot, they dare not,\nmake it murder. Not that. But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man,\nI don't see any other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don't\nseem somehow to have committed. And yet I'm a perfectly respectable man,\nand wished nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business.'\n\nWith this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury\ndescended to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven.\nThere was a letter in the box; he knew the handwriting: John at last!\n\n'Well, I think I might have been spared this,' he said bitterly, and\ntore it open.\n\nDear Morris [it ran], what the dickens do you mean by it? I'm in an\nawful hole down here; I have to go on tick, and the parties on the spot\ndon't cotton to the idea; they couldn't, because it is so plain I'm in a\nstait of Destitution. I've got no bedclothes, think of that, I must have\ncoins, the hole thing's a Mockry, I wont stand it, nobody would. I would\nhave come away before, only I have no money for the railway fare. Don't\nbe a lunatic, Morris, you don't seem to understand my dredful situation.\nI have to get the stamp on tick. A fact.\n\n--Ever your affte. Brother,\n\nJ. FINSBURY\n\n'Can't even spell!' Morris reflected, as he crammed the letter in his\npocket, and left the house. 'What can I do for him? I have to go to the\nexpense of a barber, I'm so shattered! How can I send anybody coins?\nIt's hard lines, I daresay; but does he think I'm living on hot muffins?\nOne comfort,' was his grim reflection, 'he can't cut and run--he's got\nto stay; he's as helpless as the dead.' And then he broke forth again:\n'Complains, does he? and he's never even heard of Bent Pitman! If he had\nwhat I have on my mind, he might complain with a good grace.'\n\nBut these were not honest arguments, or not wholly honest; there was a\nstruggle in the mind of Morris; he could not disguise from himself that\nhis brother John was miserably situated at Browndean, without news,\nwithout money, without bedclothes, without society or any entertainment;\nand by the time he had been shaved and picked a hasty breakfast at a\ncoffee tavern, Morris had arrived at a compromise.\n\n'Poor Johnny,' he said to himself, 'he's in an awful box! I can't\nsend him coins, but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll send him the Pink\nUn--it'll cheer John up; and besides, it'll do his credit good getting\nanything by post.'\n\nAccordingly, on his way to the leather business, whither he proceeded\n(according to his thrifty habit) on foot, Morris purchased and\ndispatched a single copy of that enlivening periodical, to which (in\na sudden pang of remorse) he added at random the Athenaeum, the\nRevivalist, and the Penny Pictorial Weekly. So there was John set up\nwith literature, and Morris had laid balm upon his conscience.\n\nAs if to reward him, he was received in his place of business with good\nnews. Orders were pouring in; there was a run on some of the back stock,\nand the figure had gone up. Even the manager appeared elated. As for\nMorris, who had almost forgotten the meaning of good news, he longed to\nsob like a little child; he could have caught the manager (a pallid\nman with startled eyebrows) to his bosom; he could have found it in\nhis generosity to give a cheque (for a small sum) to every clerk in\nthe counting-house. As he sat and opened his letters a chorus of airy\nvocalists sang in his brain, to most exquisite music, 'This whole\nconcern may be profitable yet, profitable yet, profitable yet.'\n\nTo him, in this sunny moment of relief, enter a Mr Rodgerson, a\ncreditor, but not one who was expected to be pressing, for his\nconnection with the firm was old and regular.\n\n'O, Finsbury,' said he, not without embarrassment, 'it's of course only\nfair to let you know--the fact is, money is a trifle tight--I have some\npaper out--for that matter, every one's complaining--and in short--'\n\n'It has never been our habit, Rodgerson,' said Morris, turning pale.\n'But give me time to turn round, and I'll see what I can do; I daresay\nwe can let you have something to account.'\n\n'Well, that's just where is,' replied Rodgerson. 'I was tempted; I've\nlet the credit out of MY hands.'\n\n'Out of your hands?' repeated Morris. 'That's playing rather fast and\nloose with us, Mr Rodgerson.'\n\n'Well, I got cent. for cent. for it,' said the other, 'on the nail, in a\ncertified cheque.'\n\n'Cent. for cent.!' cried Morris. 'Why, that's something like thirty per\ncent. bonus; a singular thing! Who's the party?'\n\n'Don't know the man,' was the reply. 'Name of Moss.'\n\n'A Jew,' Morris reflected, when his visitor was gone. And what could a\nJew want with a claim of--he verified the amount in the books--a claim\nof three five eight, nineteen, ten, against the house of Finsbury? And\nwhy should he pay cent. for cent.? The figure proved the loyalty of\nRodgerson--even Morris admitted that. But it proved unfortunately\nsomething else--the eagerness of Moss. The claim must have been wanted\ninstantly, for that day, for that morning even. Why? The mystery of Moss\npromised to be a fit pendant to the mystery of Pitman. 'And just when\nall was looking well too!' cried Morris, smiting his hand upon the desk.\nAnd almost at the same moment Mr Moss was announced.\n\nMr Moss was a radiant Hebrew, brutally handsome, and offensively polite.\nHe was acting, it appeared, for a third party; he understood nothing of\nthe circumstances; his client desired to have his position regularized;\nbut he would accept an antedated cheque--antedated by two months, if Mr\nFinsbury chose.\n\n'But I don't understand this,' said Morris. 'What made you pay cent. per\ncent. for it today?'\n\nMr Moss had no idea; only his orders.\n\n'The whole thing is thoroughly irregular,' said Morris. 'It is not the\ncustom of the trade to settle at this time of the year. What are your\ninstructions if I refuse?'\n\n'I am to see Mr Joseph Finsbury, the head of the firm,' said Mr Moss.\n'I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no status\nhere--the expressions are not mine.'\n\n'You cannot see Mr Joseph; he is unwell,' said Morris.\n\n'In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. Let\nme see,' said Mr Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspicious\ncare, at the right place--'Yes--of Mr Michael Finsbury. A relation,\nperhaps? In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantly\narranged.'\n\nTo pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck his\ncolours. A cheque at two months was nothing, after all. In two months\nhe would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate. He bade the manager\ngive Mr Moss a chair and the paper. 'I'm going over to get a cheque\nsigned by Mr Finsbury,' said he, 'who is lying ill at John Street.'\n\nA cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital!\nHe counted the cost; when he was done with Mr Moss he would be left with\ntwelvepence-halfpenny in the world. What was even worse, he had now been\nforced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. 'No use for poor Johnny\nin Hampshire now,' he reflected. 'And how the farce is to be kept up\ncompletely passes me. At Browndean it was just possible; in Bloomsbury\nit seems beyond human ingenuity--though I suppose it's what Michael\ndoes. But then he has accomplices--that Scotsman and the whole gang. Ah,\nif I had accomplices!'\n\nNecessity is the mother of the arts. Under a spur so immediate, Morris\nsurprised himself by the neatness and dispatch of his new forgery, and\nwithin three-fourths of an hour had handed it to Mr Moss.\n\n'That is very satisfactory,' observed that gentleman, rising. 'I was to\ntell you it will not be presented, but you had better take care.'\n\nThe room swam round Morris. 'What--what's that?' he cried, grasping the\ntable. He was miserably conscious the next moment of his shrill tongue\nand ashen face. 'What do you mean--it will not be presented? Why am I to\ntake care? What is all this mummery?'\n\n'I have no idea, Mr Finsbury,' replied the smiling Hebrew. 'It was a\nmessage I was to deliver. The expressions were put into my mouth.'\n\n'What is your client's name?' asked Morris.\n\n'That is a secret for the moment,' answered Mr Moss. Morris bent toward\nhim. 'It's not the bank?' he asked hoarsely.\n\n'I have no authority to say more, Mr Finsbury,' returned Mr Moss. 'I\nwill wish you a good morning, if you please.'\n\n'Wish me a good morning!' thought Morris; and the next moment, seizing\nhis hat, he fled from his place of business like a madman. Three streets\naway he stopped and groaned. 'Lord! I should have borrowed from the\nmanager!' he cried. 'But it's too late now; it would look dicky to go\nback; I'm penniless--simply penniless--like the unemployed.'\n\nHe went home and sat in the dismantled dining-room with his head in his\nhands. Newton never thought harder than this victim of circumstances,\nand yet no clearness came. 'It may be a defect in my intelligence,' he\ncried, rising to his feet, 'but I cannot see that I am fairly used. The\nbad luck I've had is a thing to write to The Times about; it's enough to\nbreed a revolution. And the plain English of the whole thing is that I\nmust have money at once. I'm done with all morality now; I'm long past\nthat stage; money I must have, and the only chance I see is Bent Pitman.\nBent Pitman is a criminal, and therefore his position's weak. He must\nhave some of that eight hundred left; if he has I'll force him to go\nshares; and even if he hasn't, I'll tell him the tontine affair, and\nwith a desperate man like Pitman at my back, it'll be strange if I don't\nsucceed.'\n\nWell and good. But how to lay hands upon Bent Pitman, except by\nadvertisement, was not so clear. And even so, in what terms to ask a\nmeeting? on what grounds? and where? Not at John Street, for it would\nnever do to let a man like Bent Pitman know your real address; nor yet\nat Pitman's house, some dreadful place in Holloway, with a trapdoor\nin the back kitchen; a house which you might enter in a light summer\novercoat and varnished boots, to come forth again piecemeal in a\nmarket-basket. That was the drawback of a really efficient accomplice,\nMorris felt, not without a shudder. 'I never dreamed I should come to\nactually covet such society,' he thought. And then a brilliant idea\nstruck him. Waterloo Station, a public place, yet at certain hours of\nthe day a solitary; a place, besides, the very name of which must knock\nupon the heart of Pitman, and at once suggest a knowledge of the latest\nof his guilty secrets. Morris took a piece of paper and sketched his\nadvertisement.\n\n\nWILLIAM BENT PITMAN, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of\nSOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE on the far end of the main line departure\nplatform, Waterloo Station, 2 to 4 P.M., Sunday next.\n\nMorris reperused this literary trifle with approbation. 'Terse,' he\nreflected. 'Something to his advantage is not strictly true; but it's\ntaking and original, and a man is not on oath in an advertisement.\nAll that I require now is the ready cash for my own meals and for the\nadvertisement, and--no, I can't lavish money upon John, but I'll give\nhim some more papers. How to raise the wind?'\n\nHe approached his cabinet of signets, and the collector suddenly\nrevolted in his blood. 'I will not!' he cried; 'nothing shall induce me\nto massacre my collection--rather theft!' And dashing upstairs to the\ndrawing-room, he helped himself to a few of his uncle's curiosities:\na pair of Turkish babooshes, a Smyrna fan, a water-cooler, a musket\nguaranteed to have been seized from an Ephesian bandit, and a pocketful\nof curious but incomplete seashells.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. William Bent Pitman Hears of Something to his Advantage\n\nOn the morning of Sunday, William Dent Pitman rose at his usual hour,\nalthough with something more than the usual reluctance. The day before\n(it should be explained) an addition had been made to his family in the\nperson of a lodger. Michael Finsbury had acted sponsor in the business,\nand guaranteed the weekly bill; on the other hand, no doubt with a spice\nof his prevailing jocularity, he had drawn a depressing portrait of the\nlodger's character. Mr Pitman had been led to understand his guest was\nnot good company; he had approached the gentleman with fear, and had\nrejoiced to find himself the entertainer of an angel. At tea he had been\nvastly pleased; till hard on one in the morning he had sat entranced by\neloquence and progressively fortified with information in the studio;\nand now, as he reviewed over his toilet the harmless pleasures of\nthe evening, the future smiled upon him with revived attractions. 'Mr\nFinsbury is indeed an acquisition,' he remarked to himself; and as\nhe entered the little parlour, where the table was already laid for\nbreakfast, the cordiality of his greeting would have befitted an\nacquaintanceship already old.\n\n'I am delighted to see you, sir'--these were his expressions--'and I\ntrust you have slept well.'\n\n'Accustomed as I have been for so long to a life of almost perpetual\nchange,' replied the guest, 'the disturbance so often complained of by\nthe more sedentary, as attending their first night in (what is called) a\nnew bed, is a complaint from which I am entirely free.'\n\n'I am delighted to hear it,' said the drawing-master warmly. 'But I see\nI have interrupted you over the paper.'\n\n'The Sunday paper is one of the features of the age,' said Mr Finsbury.\n'In America, I am told, it supersedes all other literature, the bone and\nsinew of the nation finding their requirements catered for; hundreds of\ncolumns will be occupied with interesting details of the world's\ndoings, such as water-spouts, elopements, conflagrations, and public\nentertainments; there is a corner for politics, ladies' work, chess,\nreligion, and even literature; and a few spicy editorials serve to\ndirect the course of public thought. It is difficult to estimate the\npart played by such enormous and miscellaneous repositories in the\neducation of the people. But this (though interesting in itself)\npartakes of the nature of a digression; and what I was about to ask you\nwas this: Are you yourself a student of the daily press?'\n\n'There is not much in the papers to interest an artist,' returned\nPitman.\n\n'In that case,' resumed Joseph, 'an advertisement which has appeared\nthe last two days in various journals, and reappears this morning,\nmay possibly have failed to catch your eye. The name, with a trifling\nvariation, bears a strong resemblance to your own. Ah, here it is. If\nyou please, I will read it to you:\n\nWILIAM BENT PITMAN, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of\nSOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE at the far end of the main line departure\nplatform, Waterloo Station, 2 to 4 P.M. today.\n\n'Is that in print?' cried Pitman. 'Let me see it! Bent? It must be Dent!\nSOMETHING TO MY ADVANTAGE? Mr Finsbury, excuse me offering a word of\ncaution; I am aware how strangely this must sound in your ears, but\nthere are domestic reasons why this little circumstance might perhaps\nbe better kept between ourselves. Mrs Pitman--my dear Sir, I assure you\nthere is nothing dishonourable in my secrecy; the reasons are domestic,\nmerely domestic; and I may set your conscience at rest when I assure\nyou all the circumstances are known to our common friend, your excellent\nnephew, Mr Michael, who has not withdrawn from me his esteem.'\n\n'A word is enough, Mr Pitman,' said Joseph, with one of his Oriental\nreverences.\n\nHalf an hour later, the drawing-master found Michael in bed and reading\na book, the picture of good-humour and repose.\n\n'Hillo, Pitman,' he said, laying down his book, 'what brings you here at\nthis inclement hour? Ought to be in church, my boy!'\n\n'I have little thought of church today, Mr Finsbury,' said the\ndrawing-master. 'I am on the brink of something new, Sir.' And he\npresented the advertisement.\n\n'Why, what is this?' cried Michael, sitting suddenly up. He studied\nit for half a minute with a frown. 'Pitman, I don't care about this\ndocument a particle,' said he.\n\n'It will have to be attended to, however,' said Pitman.\n\n'I thought you'd had enough of Waterloo,' returned the lawyer. 'Have you\nstarted a morbid craving? You've never been yourself anyway since you\nlost that beard. I believe now it was where you kept your senses.'\n\n'Mr Finsbury,' said the drawing-master, 'I have tried to reason this\nmatter out, and, with your permission, I should like to lay before you\nthe results.'\n\n'Fire away,' said Michael; 'but please, Pitman, remember it's Sunday,\nand let's have no bad language.'\n\n'There are three views open to us,' began Pitman. 'First this may\nbe connected with the barrel; second, it may be connected with Mr\nSemitopolis's statue; and third, it may be from my wife's brother, who\nwent to Australia. In the first case, which is of course possible, I\nconfess the matter would be best allowed to drop.'\n\n'The court is with you there, Brother Pitman,' said Michael.\n\n'In the second,' continued the other, 'it is plainly my duty to leave no\nstone unturned for the recovery of the lost antique.'\n\n'My dear fellow, Semitopolis has come down like a trump; he has pocketed\nthe loss and left you the profit. What more would you have?' enquired\nthe lawyer.\n\n'I conceive, sir, under correction, that Mr Semitopolis's generosity\nbinds me to even greater exertion,' said the drawing-master. 'The whole\nbusiness was unfortunate; it was--I need not disguise it from you--it\nwas illegal from the first: the more reason that I should try to behave\nlike a gentleman,' concluded Pitman, flushing.\n\n'I have nothing to say to that,' returned the lawyer. 'I have sometimes\nthought I should like to try to behave like a gentleman myself; only\nit's such a one-sided business, with the world and the legal profession\nas they are.'\n\n'Then, in the third,' resumed the drawing-master, 'if it's Uncle Tim, of\ncourse, our fortune's made.'\n\n'It's not Uncle Tim, though,' said the lawyer.\n\n'Have you observed that very remarkable expression: SOMETHING TO HIS\nADVANTAGE?' enquired Pitman shrewdly.\n\n'You innocent mutton,' said Michael, 'it's the seediest commonplace in\nthe English language, and only proves the advertiser is an ass. Let me\ndemolish your house of cards for you at once. Would Uncle Tim make\nthat blunder in your name?--in itself, the blunder is delicious, a huge\nimprovement on the gross reality, and I mean to adopt it in the future;\nbut is it like Uncle Tim?'\n\n'No, it's not like him,' Pitman admitted. 'But his mind may have become\nunhinged at Ballarat.'\n\n'If you come to that, Pitman,' said Michael, 'the advertiser may be\nQueen Victoria, fired with the desire to make a duke of you. I put it\nto yourself if that's probable; and yet it's not against the laws of\nnature. But we sit here to consider probabilities; and with your genteel\npermission, I eliminate her Majesty and Uncle Tim on the threshold. To\nproceed, we have your second idea, that this has some connection with\nthe statue. Possible; but in that case who is the advertiser? Not\nRicardi, for he knows your address; not the person who got the box, for\nhe doesn't know your name. The vanman, I hear you suggest, in a lucid\ninterval. He might have got your name, and got it incorrectly, at the\nstation; and he might have failed to get your address. I grant the\nvanman. But a question: Do you really wish to meet the vanman?'\n\n'Why should I not?' asked Pitman.\n\n'If he wants to meet you,' replied Michael, 'observe this: it is because\nhe has found his address-book, has been to the house that got the\nstatue, and-mark my words!--is moving at the instigation of the\nmurderer.'\n\n'I should be very sorry to think so,' said Pitman; 'but I still consider\nit my duty to Mr Sernitopolis. . .'\n\n'Pitman,' interrupted Michael, 'this will not do. Don't seek to impose\non your legal adviser; don't try to pass yourself off for the Duke of\nWellington, for that is not your line. Come, I wager a dinner I can read\nyour thoughts. You still believe it's Uncle Tim.'\n\n'Mr Finsbury,' said the drawing-master, colouring, 'you are not a man in\nnarrow circumstances, and you have no family. Guendolen is growing up,\na very promising girl--she was confirmed this year; and I think you will\nbe able to enter into my feelings as a parent when I tell you she is\nquite ignorant of dancing. The boys are at the board school, which is\nall very well in its way; at least, I am the last man in the world to\ncriticize the institutions of my native land. But I had fondly hoped\nthat Harold might become a professional musician; and little Otho\nshows a quite remarkable vocation for the Church. I am not exactly an\nambitious man...'\n\n'Well, well,' interrupted Michael. 'Be explicit; you think it's Uncle\nTim?'\n\n'It might be Uncle Tim,' insisted Pitman, 'and if it were, and I\nneglected the occasion, how could I ever look my children in the face? I\ndo not refer to Mrs Pitman. . .'\n\n'No, you never do,' said Michael.\n\n'. . . but in the case of her own brother returning from Ballarat. . .'\ncontinued Pitman.\n\n'. . . with his mind unhinged,' put in the lawyer.\n\n'. . . returning from Ballarat with a large fortune, her impatience may\nbe more easily imagined than described,' concluded Pitman.\n\n'All right,' said Michael, 'be it so. And what do you propose to do?'\n\n'I am going to Waterloo,' said Pitman, 'in disguise.'\n\n'All by your little self?' enquired the lawyer. 'Well, I hope you think\nit safe. Mind and send me word from the police cells.'\n\n'O, Mr Finsbury, I had ventured to hope--perhaps you might be induced\nto--to make one of us,' faltered Pitman.\n\n'Disguise myself on Sunday?' cried Michael. 'How little you understand\nmy principles!'\n\n'Mr Finsbury, I have no means of showing you my gratitude; but let me\nask you one question,' said Pitman. 'If I were a very rich client, would\nyou not take the risk?'\n\n'Diamond, Diamond, you know not what you do!' cried Michael. 'Why, man,\ndo you suppose I make a practice of cutting about London with my clients\nin disguise? Do you suppose money would induce me to touch this business\nwith a stick? I give you my word of honour, it would not. But I own I\nhave a real curiosity to see how you conduct this interview--that tempts\nme; it tempts me, Pitman, more than gold--it should be exquisitely\nrich.' And suddenly Michael laughed. 'Well, Pitman,' said he, 'have all\nthe truck ready in the studio. I'll go.'\n\nAbout twenty minutes after two, on this eventful day, the vast and\ngloomy shed of Waterloo lay, like the temple of a dead religion, silent\nand deserted. Here and there at one of the platforms, a train lay\nbecalmed; here and there a wandering footfall echoed; the cab-horses\noutside stamped with startling reverberations on the stones; or from the\nneighbouring wilderness of railway an engine snorted forth a whistle.\nThe main-line departure platform slumbered like the rest; the\nbooking-hutches closed; the backs of Mr Haggard's novels, with which\nupon a weekday the bookstall shines emblazoned, discreetly hidden behind\ndingy shutters; the rare officials, undisguisedly somnambulant; and the\ncustomary loiterers, even to the middle-aged woman with the ulster and\nthe handbag, fled to more congenial scenes. As in the inmost dells of\nsome small tropic island the throbbing of the ocean lingers, so here a\nfaint pervading hum and trepidation told in every corner of surrounding\nLondon.\n\nAt the hour already named, persons acquainted with John Dickson, of\nBallarat, and Ezra Thomas, of the United States of America, would have\nbeen cheered to behold them enter through the booking-office.\n\n'What names are we to take?' enquired the latter, anxiously adjusting\nthe window-glass spectacles which he had been suffered on this occasion\nto assume.\n\n'There's no choice for you, my boy,' returned Michael. 'Bent Pitman\nor nothing. As for me, I think I look as if I might be called Appleby;\nsomething agreeably old-world about Appleby--breathes of Devonshire\ncider. Talking of which, suppose you wet your whistle? the interview is\nlikely to be trying.'\n\n'I think I'll wait till afterwards,' returned Pitman; 'on the whole, I\nthink I'll wait till the thing's over. I don't know if it strikes you\nas it does me; but the place seems deserted and silent, Mr Finsbury, and\nfilled with very singular echoes.'\n\n'Kind of Jack-in-the-box feeling?' enquired Michael, 'as if all these\nempty trains might be filled with policemen waiting for a signal? and\nSir Charles Warren perched among the girders with a silver whistle to\nhis lips? It's guilt, Pitman.'\n\nIn this uneasy frame of mind they walked nearly the whole length of\nthe departure platform, and at the western extremity became aware of a\nslender figure standing back against a pillar. The figure was plainly\nsunk into a deep abstraction; he was not aware of their approach, but\ngazed far abroad over the sunlit station. Michael stopped.\n\n'Holloa!' said he, 'can that be your advertiser? If so, I'm done with\nit.' And then, on second thoughts: 'Not so, either,' he resumed more\ncheerfully. 'Here, turn your back a moment. So. Give me the specs.'\n\n'But you agreed I was to have them,' protested Pitman.\n\n'Ah, but that man knows me,' said Michael.\n\n'Does he? what's his name?' cried Pitman.\n\n'O, he took me into his confidence,' returned the lawyer. 'But I may say\none thing: if he's your advertiser (and he may be, for he seems to\nhave been seized with criminal lunacy) you can go ahead with a clear\nconscience, for I hold him in the hollow of my hand.'\n\nThe change effected, and Pitman comforted with this good news, the pair\ndrew near to Morris.\n\n'Are you looking for Mr William Bent Pitman?' enquired the\ndrawing-master. 'I am he.'\n\nMorris raised his head. He saw before him, in the speaker, a person\nof almost indescribable insignificance, in white spats and a shirt cut\nindecently low. A little behind, a second and more burly figure\noffered little to criticism, except ulster, whiskers, spectacles,\nand deerstalker hat. Since he had decided to call up devils from the\nunderworld of London, Morris had pondered deeply on the probabilities\nof their appearance. His first emotion, like that of Charoba when she\nbeheld the sea, was one of disappointment; his second did more justice\nto the case. Never before had he seen a couple dressed like these; he\nhad struck a new stratum.\n\n'I must speak with you alone,' said he.\n\n'You need not mind Mr Appleby,' returned Pitman. 'He knows all.'\n\n'All? Do you know what I am here to speak of?' enquired Morris--. 'The\nbarrel.'\n\nPitman turned pale, but it was with manly indignation. 'You are the\nman!' he cried. 'You very wicked person.'\n\n'Am I to speak before him?' asked Morris, disregarding these severe\nexpressions.\n\n'He has been present throughout,' said Pitman. 'He opened the barrel;\nyour guilty secret is already known to him, as well as to your Maker and\nmyself.'\n\n'Well, then,' said Morris, 'what have you done with the money?'\n\n'I know nothing about any money,' said Pitman.\n\n'You needn't try that on,' said Morris. 'I have tracked you down; you\ncame to the station sacrilegiously disguised as a clergyman, procured my\nbarrel, opened it, rifled the body, and cashed the bill. I have been to\nthe bank, I tell you! I have followed you step by step, and your denials\nare childish and absurd.'\n\n'Come, come, Morris, keep your temper,' said Mr Appleby.\n\n'Michael!' cried Morris, 'Michael here too!'\n\n'Here too,' echoed the lawyer; 'here and everywhere, my good fellow;\nevery step you take is counted; trained detectives follow you like your\nshadow; they report to me every three-quarters of an hour; no expense is\nspared.'\n\nMorris's face took on a hue of dirty grey. 'Well, I don't care; I have\nthe less reserve to keep,' he cried. 'That man cashed my bill; it's a\ntheft, and I want the money back.'\n\n'Do you think I would lie to you, Morris?' asked Michael.\n\n'I don't know,' said his cousin. 'I want my money.'\n\n'It was I alone who touched the body,' began Michael.\n\n'You? Michael!' cried Morris, starting back. 'Then why haven't you\ndeclared the death?' 'What the devil do you mean?' asked Michael.\n\n'Am I mad? or are you?' cried Morris.\n\n'I think it must be Pitman,' said Michael.\n\nThe three men stared at each other, wild-eyed.\n\n'This is dreadful,' said Morris, 'dreadful. I do not understand one word\nthat is addressed to me.'\n\n'I give you my word of honour, no more do I,' said Michael.\n\n'And in God's name, why whiskers?' cried Morris, pointing in a ghastly\nmanner at his cousin. 'Does my brain reel? How whiskers?'\n\n'O, that's a matter of detail,' said Michael.\n\nThere was another silence, during which Morris appeared to himself to\nbe shot in a trapeze as high as St Paul's, and as low as Baker Street\nStation.\n\n'Let us recapitulate,' said Michael, 'unless it's really a dream, in\nwhich case I wish Teena would call me for breakfast. My friend Pitman,\nhere, received a barrel which, it now appears, was meant for you. The\nbarrel contained the body of a man. How or why you killed him...'\n\n'I never laid a hand on him,' protested Morris. 'This is what I have\ndreaded all along. But think, Michael! I'm not that kind of man; with\nall my faults, I wouldn't touch a hair of anybody's head, and it was all\ndead loss to me. He got killed in that vile accident.'\n\nSuddenly Michael was seized by mirth so prolonged and excessive that his\ncompanions supposed beyond a doubt his reason had deserted him. Again\nand again he struggled to compose himself, and again and again laughter\noverwhelmed him like a tide. In all this maddening interview there had\nbeen no more spectral feature than this of Michael's merriment; and\nPitman and Morris, drawn together by the common fear, exchanged glances\nof anxiety.\n\n'Morris,' gasped the lawyer, when he was at last able to articulate,\n'hold on, I see it all now. I can make it clear in one word. Here's the\nkey: I NEVER GUESSED IT WAS UNCLE JOSEPH TILL THIS MOMENT.'\n\nThis remark produced an instant lightening of the tension for Morris.\nFor Pitman it quenched the last ray of hope and daylight. Uncle Joseph,\nwhom he had left an hour ago in Norfolk Street, pasting newspaper\ncuttings?--it?--the dead body?--then who was he, Pitman? and was this\nWaterloo Station or Colney Hatch?\n\n'To be sure!' cried Morris; 'it was badly smashed, I know. How stupid\nnot to think of that! Why, then, all's clear; and, my dear Michael, I'll\ntell you what--we're saved, both saved. You get the tontine--I don't\ngrudge it you the least--and I get the leather business, which is really\nbeginning to look up. Declare the death at once, don't mind me in the\nsmallest, don't consider me; declare the death, and we're all right.'\n\n'Ah, but I can't declare it,' said Michael.\n\n'Why not?' cried Morris.\n\n'I can't produce the corpus, Morris. I've lost it,' said the lawyer.\n\n'Stop a bit,' ejaculated the leather merchant. 'How is this? It's not\npossible. I lost it.'\n\n'Well, I've lost it too, my son,' said Michael, with extreme serenity.\n'Not recognizing it, you see, and suspecting something irregular in its\norigin, I got rid of--what shall we say?--got rid of the proceeds at\nonce.'\n\n'You got rid of the body? What made you do that?' walled Morris. 'But\nyou can get it again? You know where it is?'\n\n'I wish I did, Morris, and you may believe me there, for it would be a\nsmall sum in my pocket; but the fact is, I don't,' said Michael.\n\n'Good Lord,' said Morris, addressing heaven and earth, 'good Lord, I've\nlost the leather business!'\n\nMichael was once more shaken with laughter.\n\n'Why do you laugh, you fool?' cried his cousin, 'you lose more than I.\nYou've bungled it worse than even I did. If you had a spark of feeling,\nyou would be shaking in your boots with vexation. But I'll tell you one\nthing--I'll have that eight hundred pound--I'll have that and go to Swan\nRiver--that's mine, anyway, and your friend must have forged to cash it.\nGive me the eight hundred, here, upon this platform, or I go straight to\nScotland Yard and turn the whole disreputable story inside out.'\n\n'Morris,' said Michael, laying his hand upon his shoulder, 'hear reason.\nIt wasn't us, it was the other man. We never even searched the body.'\n\n'The other man?' repeated Morris.\n\n'Yes, the other man. We palmed Uncle Joseph off upon another man,' said\nMichael.\n\n'You what? You palmed him off? That's surely a singular expression,'\nsaid Morris.\n\n'Yes, palmed him off for a piano,' said Michael with perfect simplicity.\n'Remarkably full, rich tone,' he added.\n\nMorris carried his hand to his brow and looked at it; it was wet with\nsweat. 'Fever,' said he.\n\n'No, it was a Broadwood grand,' said Michael. 'Pitman here will tell you\nif it was genuine or not.'\n\n'Eh? O! O yes, I believe it was a genuine Broadwood; I have played upon\nit several times myself,' said Pitman. 'The three-letter E was broken.'\n\n'Don't say anything more about pianos,' said Morris, with a strong\nshudder; 'I'm not the man I used to be! This--this other man--let's come\nto him, if I can only manage to follow. Who is he? Where can I get hold\nof him?'\n\n'Ah, that's the rub,' said Michael. 'He's been in possession of the\ndesired article, let me see--since Wednesday, about four o'clock, and is\nnow, I should imagine, on his way to the isles of Javan and Gadire.'\n\n'Michael,' said Morris pleadingly, 'I am in a very weak state, and I beg\nyour consideration for a kinsman. Say it slowly again, and be sure you\nare correct. When did he get it?'\n\nMichael repeated his statement.\n\n'Yes, that's the worst thing yet,' said Morris, drawing in his breath.\n\n'What is?' asked the lawyer.\n\n'Even the dates are sheer nonsense,' said the leather merchant.\n\n'The bill was cashed on Tuesday. There's not a gleam of reason in the\nwhole transaction.'\n\nA young gentleman, who had passed the trio and suddenly started and\nturned back, at this moment laid a heavy hand on Michael's shoulder.\n\n'Aha! so this is Mr Dickson?' said he.\n\nThe trump of judgement could scarce have rung with a more dreadful note\nin the ears of Pitman and the lawyer. To Morris this erroneous name\nseemed a legitimate enough continuation of the nightmare in which he\nhad so long been wandering. And when Michael, with his brand-new bushy\nwhiskers, broke from the grasp of the stranger and turned to run, and\nthe weird little shaven creature in the low-necked shirt followed his\nexample with a bird-like screech, and the stranger (finding the rest of\nhis prey escape him) pounced with a rude grasp on Morris himself,\nthat gentleman's frame of mind might be very nearly expressed in the\ncolloquial phrase: 'I told you so!'\n\n'I have one of the gang,' said Gideon Forsyth.\n\n'I do not understand,' said Morris dully.\n\n'O, I will make you understand,' returned Gideon grimly.\n\n'You will be a good friend to me if you can make me understand\nanything,' cried Morris, with a sudden energy of conviction.\n\n'I don't know you personally, do I?' continued Gideon, examining his\nunresisting prisoner. 'Never mind, I know your friends. They are your\nfriends, are they not?'\n\n'I do not understand you,' said Morris.\n\n'You had possibly something to do with a piano?' suggested Gideon.\n\n'A piano!' cried Morris, convulsively clasping Gideon by the arm. 'Then\nyou're the other man! Where is it? Where is the body? And did you cash\nthe draft?'\n\n'Where is the body? This is very strange,' mused Gideon. 'Do you want\nthe body?'\n\n'Want it?' cried Morris. 'My whole fortune depends upon it! I lost it.\nWhere is it? Take me to it?\n\n'O, you want it, do you? And the other man, Dickson--does he want it?'\nenquired Gideon.\n\n'Who do you mean by Dickson? O, Michael Finsbury! Why, of course he\ndoes! He lost it too. If he had it, he'd have won the tontine tomorrow.'\n\n'Michael Finsbury! Not the solicitor?' cried Gideon. 'Yes, the\nsolicitor,' said Morris. 'But where is the body?'\n\n'Then that is why he sent the brief! What is Mr Finsbury's private\naddress?' asked Gideon.\n\n'233 King's Road. What brief? Where are you going? Where is the body?'\ncried Morris, clinging to Gideon's arm.\n\n'I have lost it myself,' returned Gideon, and ran out of the station.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. The Return of the Great Vance\n\nMorris returned from Waterloo in a frame of mind that baffles\ndescription. He was a modest man; he had never conceived an overweening\nnotion of his own powers; he knew himself unfit to write a book, turn a\ntable napkin-ring, entertain a Christmas party with legerdemain--grapple\n(in short) any of those conspicuous accomplishments that are usually\nclassed under the head of genius. He knew--he admitted--his parts to be\npedestrian, but he had considered them (until quite lately) fully equal\nto the demands of life. And today he owned himself defeated: life had\nthe upper hand; if there had been any means of flight or place to flee\nto, if the world had been so ordered that a man could leave it like a\nplace of entertainment, Morris would have instantly resigned all further\nclaim on its rewards and pleasures, and, with inexpressible contentment,\nceased to be. As it was, one aim shone before him: he could get home.\nEven as the sick dog crawls under the sofa, Morris could shut the door\nof John Street and be alone.\n\nThe dusk was falling when he drew near this place of refuge; and the\nfirst thing that met his eyes was the figure of a man upon the step,\nalternately plucking at the bell-handle and pounding on the panels. The\nman had no hat, his clothes were hideous with filth, he had the air of a\nhop-picker. Yet Morris knew him; it was John.\n\nThe first impulse of flight was succeeded, in the elder brother's\nbosom, by the empty quiescence of despair. 'What does it matter now?' he\nthought, and drawing forth his latchkey ascended the steps.\n\nJohn turned about; his face was ghastly with weariness and dirt and\nfury; and as he recognized the head of his family, he drew in a long\nrasping breath, and his eyes glittered.\n\n'Open that door,' he said, standing back.\n\n'I am going to,' said Morris, and added mentally, 'He looks like\nmurder!'\n\nThe brothers passed into the hall, the door closed behind them; and\nsuddenly John seized Morris by the shoulders and shook him as a terrier\nshakes a rat. 'You mangy little cad,' he said, 'I'd serve you right to\nsmash your skull!' And shook him again, so that his teeth rattled and\nhis head smote upon the wall.\n\n'Don't be violent, Johnny,' said Morris. 'It can't do any good now.'\n\n'Shut your mouth,' said John, 'your time's come to listen.'\n\nHe strode into the dining-room, fell into the easy-chair, and taking off\none of his burst walking-shoes, nursed for a while his foot like one in\nagony. 'I'm lame for life,' he said. 'What is there for dinner?'\n\n'Nothing, Johnny,' said Morris.\n\n'Nothing? What do you mean by that?' enquired the Great Vance. 'Don't\nset up your chat to me!'\n\n'I mean simply nothing,' said his brother. 'I have nothing to eat, and\nnothing to buy it with. I've only had a cup of tea and a sandwich all\nthis day myself.'\n\n'Only a sandwich?' sneered Vance. 'I suppose YOU'RE going to complain\nnext. But you had better take care: I've had all I mean to take; and\nI can tell you what it is, I mean to dine and to dine well. Take your\nsignets and sell them.'\n\n'I can't today,' objected Morris; 'it's Sunday.'\n\n'I tell you I'm going to dine!' cried the younger brother.\n\n'But if it's not possible, Johnny?' pleaded the other.\n\n'You nincompoop!' cried Vance. 'Ain't we householders? Don't they know\nus at that hotel where Uncle Parker used to come. Be off with you; and\nif you ain't back in half an hour, and if the dinner ain't good, first\nI'll lick you till you don't want to breathe, and then I'll go straight\nto the police and blow the gaff. Do you understand that, Morris\nFinsbury? Because if you do, you had better jump.'\n\nThe idea smiled even upon the wretched Morris, who was sick with famine.\nHe sped upon his errand, and returned to find John still nursing his\nfoot in the armchair.\n\n'What would you like to drink, Johnny?' he enquired soothingly.\n\n'Fizz,' said John. 'Some of the poppy stuff from the end bin; a bottle\nof the old port that Michael liked, to follow; and see and don't shake\nthe port. And look here, light the fire--and the gas, and draw down the\nblinds; it's cold and it's getting dark. And then you can lay the cloth.\nAnd, I say--here, you! bring me down some clothes.'\n\nThe room looked comparatively habitable by the time the dinner came; and\nthe dinner itself was good: strong gravy soup, fillets of sole, mutton\nchops and tomato sauce, roast beef done rare with roast potatoes,\ncabinet pudding, a piece of Chester cheese, and some early celery: a\nmeal uncompromisingly British, but supporting.\n\n'Thank God!' said John, his nostrils sniffing wide, surprised by joy\ninto the unwonted formality of grace. 'Now I'm going to take this chair\nwith my back to the fire--there's been a strong frost these two last\nnights, and I can't get it out of my bones; the celery will be just the\nticket--I'm going to sit here, and you are going to stand there, Morris\nFinsbury, and play butler.'\n\n'But, Johnny, I'm so hungry myself,' pleaded Morris.\n\n'You can have what I leave,' said Vance. 'You're just beginning to\npay your score, my daisy; I owe you one-pound-ten; don't you rouse the\nBritish lion!' There was something indescribably menacing in the face\nand voice of the Great Vance as he uttered these words, at which the\nsoul of Morris withered. 'There!' resumed the feaster, 'give us a glass\nof the fizz to start with. Gravy soup! And I thought I didn't like gravy\nsoup! Do you know how I got here?' he asked, with another explosion of\nwrath.\n\n'No, Johnny; how could I?' said the obsequious Morris.\n\n'I walked on my ten toes!' cried John; 'tramped the whole way from\nBrowndean; and begged! I would like to see you beg. It's not so easy\nas you might suppose. I played it on being a shipwrecked mariner from\nBlyth; I don't know where Blyth is, do you? but I thought it sounded\nnatural. I begged from a little beast of a schoolboy, and he forked out\na bit of twine, and asked me to make a clove hitch; I did, too, I know I\ndid, but he said it wasn't, he said it was a granny's knot, and I was a\nwhat-d'ye-call-'em, and he would give me in charge. Then I begged from\na naval officer--he never bothered me with knots, but he only gave me\na tract; there's a nice account of the British navy!--and then from a\nwidow woman that sold lollipops, and I got a hunch of bread from her.\nAnother party I fell in with said you could generally always get bread;\nand the thing to do was to break a plateglass window and get into gaol;\nseemed rather a brilliant scheme. Pass the beef.'\n\n'Why didn't you stay at Browndean?' Morris ventured to enquire.\n\n'Skittles!' said John. 'On what? The Pink Un and a measly religious\npaper? I had to leave Browndean; I had to, I tell you. I got tick at\na public, and set up to be the Great Vance; so would you, if you were\nleading such a beastly existence! And a card stood me a lot of ale and\nstuff, and we got swipey, talking about music-halls and the piles of tin\nI got for singing; and then they got me on to sing \"Around her splendid\nform I weaved the magic circle,\" and then he said I couldn't be Vance,\nand I stuck to it like grim death I was. It was rot of me to sing, of\ncourse, but I thought I could brazen it out with a set of yokels. It\nsettled my hash at the public,' said John, with a sigh. 'And then the\nlast thing was the carpenter--'\n\n'Our landlord?' enquired Morris.\n\n'That's the party,' said John. 'He came nosing about the place, and then\nwanted to know where the water-butt was, and the bedclothes. I told him\nto go to the devil; so would you too, when there was no possible thing\nto say! And then he said I had pawned them, and did I know it was\nfelony? Then I made a pretty neat stroke. I remembered he was deaf, and\ntalked a whole lot of rot, very politely, just so low he couldn't hear\na word. \"I don't hear you,\" says he. \"I know you don't, my buck, and I\ndon't mean you to,\" says I, smiling away like a haberdasher. \"I'm hard\nof hearing,\" he roars. \"I'd be in a pretty hot corner if you weren't,\"\nsays I, making signs as if I was explaining everything. It was tip-top\nas long as it lasted. \"Well,\" he said, \"I'm deaf, worse luck, but I\nbet the constable can hear you.\" And off he started one way, and I the\nother. They got a spirit-lamp and the Pink Un, and that old religious\npaper, and another periodical you sent me. I think you must have been\ndrunk--it had a name like one of those spots that Uncle Joseph used to\nhold forth at, and it was all full of the most awful swipes about poetry\nand the use of the globes. It was the kind of thing that nobody could\nread out of a lunatic asylum. The Athaeneum, that was the name! Golly,\nwhat a paper!'\n\n'Athenaeum, you mean,' said Morris.\n\n'I don't care what you call it,' said John, 'so as I don't require to\ntake it in! There, I feel better. Now I'm going to sit by the fire in\nthe easy-chair; pass me the cheese, and the celery, and the bottle of\nport--no, a champagne glass, it holds more. And now you can pitch in;\nthere's some of the fish left and a chop, and some fizz. Ah,' sighed the\nrefreshed pedestrian, 'Michael was right about that port; there's old\nand vatted for you! Michael's a man I like; he's clever and reads books,\nand the Athaeneum, and all that; but he's not dreary to meet, he don't\ntalk Athaeneum like the other parties; why, the most of them would throw\na blight over a skittle alley! Talking of Michael, I ain't bored myself\nto put the question, because of course I knew it from the first. You've\nmade a hash of it, eh?'\n\n'Michael made a hash of it,' said Morris, flushing dark.\n\n'What have we got to do with that?' enquired John.\n\n'He has lost the body, that's what we have to do with it,' cried Morris.\n'He has lost the body, and the death can't be established.'\n\n'Hold on,' said John. 'I thought you didn't want to?'\n\n'O, we're far past that,' said his brother. 'It's not the tontine now,\nit's the leather business, Johnny; it's the clothes upon our back.'\n\n'Stow the slow music,' said John, 'and tell your story from beginning to\nend.' Morris did as he was bid.\n\n'Well, now, what did I tell you?' cried the Great Vance, when the other\nhad done. 'But I know one thing: I'm not going to be humbugged out of my\nproperty.'\n\n'I should like to know what you mean to do,' said Morris.\n\n'I'll tell you that,' responded John with extreme decision. 'I'm going\nto put my interests in the hands of the smartest lawyer in London; and\nwhether you go to quod or not is a matter of indifference to me.'\n\n'Why, Johnny, we're in the same boat!' expostulated Morris.\n\n'Are we?' cried his brother. 'I bet we're not! Have I committed forgery?\nhave I lied about Uncle Joseph? have I put idiotic advertisements in the\ncomic papers? have I smashed other people's statues? I like your cheek,\nMorris Finsbury. No, I've let you run my affairs too long; now they\nshall go to Michael. I like Michael, anyway; and it's time I understood\nmy situation.'\n\nAt this moment the brethren were interrupted by a ring at the bell,\nand Morris, going timorously to the door, received from the hands of a\ncommissionaire a letter addressed in the hand of Michael. Its contents\nran as follows:\n\nMORRIS FINSBURY, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of\nSOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE at my office, in Chancery Lane, at 10 A.M.\ntomorrow.\n\nMICHAEL FINSBURY\n\n\nSo utter was Morris's subjection that he did not wait to be asked, but\nhanded the note to John as soon as he had glanced at it himself.\n\n'That's the way to write a letter,' cried John. 'Nobody but Michael\ncould have written that.'\n\nAnd Morris did not even claim the credit of priority.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. Final Adjustment of the Leather Business\n\nFinsbury brothers were ushered, at ten the next morning, into a large\napartment in Michael's office; the Great Vance, somewhat restored from\nyesterday's exhaustion, but with one foot in a slipper; Morris, not\npositively damaged, but a man ten years older than he who had left\nBournemouth eight days before, his face ploughed full of anxious\nwrinkles, his dark hair liberally grizzled at the temples.\n\nThree persons were seated at a table to receive them: Michael in\nthe midst, Gideon Forsyth on his right hand, on his left an ancient\ngentleman with spectacles and silver hair. 'By Jingo, it's Uncle Joe!'\ncried John.\n\nBut Morris approached his uncle with a pale countenance and glittering\neyes.\n\n'I'll tell you what you did!' he cried. 'You absconded!'\n\n'Good morning, Morris Finsbury,' returned Joseph, with no less asperity;\n'you are looking seriously ill.'\n\n'No use making trouble now,' remarked Michael. 'Look the facts in the\nface. Your uncle, as you see, was not so much as shaken in the accident;\na man of your humane disposition ought to be delighted.'\n\n'Then, if that's so,' Morris broke forth, 'how about the body? You don't\nmean to insinuate that thing I schemed and sweated for, and colported\nwith my own hands, was the body of a total stranger?'\n\n'O no, we can't go as far as that,' said Michael soothingly; 'you may\nhave met him at the club.'\n\nMorris fell into a chair. 'I would have found it out if it had come to\nthe house,' he complained. 'And why didn't it? why did it go to Pitman?\nwhat right had Pitman to open it?'\n\n'If you come to that, Morris, what have you done with the colossal\nHercules?' asked Michael.\n\n'He went through it with the meat-axe,' said John. 'It's all in\nspillikins in the back garden.'\n\n'Well, there's one thing,' snapped Morris; 'there's my uncle again, my\nfraudulent trustee. He's mine, anyway. And the tontine too. I claim the\ntontine; I claim it now. I believe Uncle Masterman's dead.'\n\n'I must put a stop to this nonsense,' said Michael, 'and that for ever.\nYou say too near the truth. In one sense your uncle is dead, and has\nbeen so long; but not in the sense of the tontine, which it is even on\nthe cards he may yet live to win. Uncle Joseph saw him this morning; he\nwill tell you he still lives, but his mind is in abeyance.'\n\n'He did not know me,' said Joseph; to do him justice, not without\nemotion.\n\n'So you're out again there, Morris,' said John. 'My eye! what a fool\nyou've made of yourself!'\n\n'And that was why you wouldn't compromise,' said Morris.\n\n'As for the absurd position in which you and Uncle Joseph have been\nmaking yourselves an exhibition,' resumed Michael, 'it is more than time\nit came to an end. I have prepared a proper discharge in full, which you\nshall sign as a preliminary.'\n\n'What?' cried Morris, 'and lose my seven thousand eight hundred pounds,\nand the leather business, and the contingent interest, and get nothing?\nThank you.'\n\n'It's like you to feel gratitude, Morris,' began Michael.\n\n'O, I know it's no good appealing to you, you sneering devil!' cried\nMorris. 'But there's a stranger present, I can't think why, and I appeal\nto him. I was robbed of that money when I was an orphan, a mere child,\nat a commercial academy. Since then, I've never had a wish but to get\nback my own. You may hear a lot of stuff about me; and there's no doubt\nat times I have been ill-advised. But it's the pathos of my situation;\nthat's what I want to show you.'\n\n'Morris,' interrupted Michael, 'I do wish you would let me add one\npoint, for I think it will affect your judgement. It's pathetic too\nsince that's your taste in literature.'\n\n'Well, what is it?' said Morris.\n\n'It's only the name of one of the persons who's to witness your\nsignature, Morris,' replied Michael. 'His name's Moss, my dear.'\n\nThere was a long silence. 'I might have been sure it was you!' cried\nMorris.\n\n'You'll sign, won't you?' said Michael.\n\n'Do you know what you're doing?' cried Morris. 'You're compounding a\nfelony.'\n\n'Very well, then, we won't compound it, Morris,' returned Michael. 'See\nhow little I understood the sterling integrity of your character! I\nthought you would prefer it so.'\n\n'Look here, Michael,' said John, 'this is all very fine and large; but\nhow about me? Morris is gone up, I see that; but I'm not. And I was\nrobbed, too, mind you; and just as much an orphan, and at the blessed\nsame academy as himself.'\n\n'Johnny,' said Michael, 'don't you think you'd better leave it to me?'\n\n'I'm your man,' said John. 'You wouldn't deceive a poor orphan, I'll\ntake my oath. Morris, you sign that document, or I'll start in and\nastonish your weak mind.'\n\nWith a sudden alacrity, Morris proffered his willingness. Clerks were\nbrought in, the discharge was executed, and there was Joseph a free man\nonce more.\n\n'And now,' said Michael, 'hear what I propose to do. Here, John\nand Morris, is the leather business made over to the pair of you in\npartnership. I have valued it at the lowest possible figure, Pogram and\nJarris's. And here is a cheque for the balance of your fortune. Now, you\nsee, Morris, you start fresh from the commercial academy; and, as you\nsaid yourself the leather business was looking up, I suppose you'll\nprobably marry before long. Here's your marriage present--from a Mr\nMoss.'\n\nMorris bounded on his cheque with a crimsoned countenance.\n\n'I don't understand the performance,' remarked John. 'It seems too good\nto be true.'\n\n'It's simply a readjustment,' Michael explained. 'I take up Uncle\nJoseph's liabilities; and if he gets the tontine, it's to be mine; if\nmy father gets it, it's mine anyway, you see. So that I'm rather\nadvantageously placed.'\n\n'Morris, my unconverted friend, you've got left,' was John's comment.\n\n'And now, Mr Forsyth,' resumed Michael, turning to his silent guest,\n'here are all the criminals before you, except Pitman. I really didn't\nlike to interrupt his scholastic career; but you can have him arrested\nat the seminary--I know his hours. Here we are then; we're not pretty to\nlook at: what do you propose to do with us?'\n\n'Nothing in the world, Mr Finsbury,' returned Gideon. 'I seem to\nunderstand that this gentleman'---indicating Morris--'is the fons et\norigo of the trouble; and, from what I gather, he has already paid\nthrough the nose. And really, to be quite frank, I do not see who is to\ngain by any scandal; not me, at least. And besides, I have to thank you\nfor that brief.'\n\nMichael blushed. 'It was the least I could do to let you have some\nbusiness,' he said. 'But there's one thing more. I don't want you to\nmisjudge poor Pitman, who is the most harmless being upon earth. I\nwish you would dine with me tonight, and see the creature on his native\nheath--say at Verrey's?'\n\n'I have no engagement, Mr Finsbury,' replied Gideon. 'I shall be\ndelighted. But subject to your judgement, can we do nothing for the man\nin the cart? I have qualms of conscience.'\n\n'Nothing but sympathize,' said Michael."