The Wrong Box
by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
and LLOYD OSBOURNE

PREFACE

'Nothing like a little judicious levity,' says Michael Finsbury
in the text: nor can any better excuse be found for the volume in
the reader's hand. The authors can but add that one of them is
old enough to be ashamed of himself, and the other young enough
to learn better.

R. L. S.
L. O.

CHAPTER I. In Which Morris Suspects

How very little does the amateur, dwelling at home at ease,
comprehend the labours and perils of the author, and, when he
smilingly skims the surface of a work of fiction, how little does
he consider the hours of toil, consultation of authorities,
researches in the Bodleian, correspondence with learned and
illegible Germans--in one word, the vast scaffolding that was
first built up and then knocked down, to while away an hour for
him in a railway train! Thus I might begin this tale with a
biography of Tonti--birthplace, parentage, genius probably
inherited from his mother, remarkable instance of precocity,
etc--and a complete treatise on the system to which he bequeathed
his name. The material is all beside me in a pigeon-hole, but I
scorn to appear vainglorious. Tonti is dead, and I never saw
anyone who even pretended to regret him; and, as for the tontine
system, a word will suffice for all the purposes of this
unvarnished narrative.

A number of sprightly youths (the more the merrier) put up a
certain sum of money, which is then funded in a pool under
trustees; coming on for a century later, the proceeds are
fluttered for a moment in the face of the last survivor, who is
probably deaf, so that he cannot even hear of his success--and
who is certainly dying, so that he might just as well have lost.
The peculiar poetry and even humour of the scheme is now
apparent, since it is one by which nobody concerned can possibly
profit; but its fine, sportsmanlike character endeared it to our
grandparents.

When Joseph Finsbury and his brother Masterman were little lads
in white-frilled trousers, their father--a well-to-do merchant in
Cheapside--caused them to join a small but rich tontine of
seven-and-thirty lives. A thousand pounds was the entrance fee;
and Joseph Finsbury can remember to this day the visit to the
lawyer's, where the members of the tontine--all children like
himself--were assembled together, and sat in turn in the big
office chair, and signed their names with the assistance of a
kind old gentleman in spectacles and Wellington boots. He
remembers playing with the children afterwards on the lawn at the
back of the lawyer's house, and a battle-royal that he had with a
brother tontiner who had kicked his shins. The sound of war
called forth the lawyer from where he was dispensing cake and
wine to the assembled parents in the office, and the combatants
were separated, and Joseph's spirit (for he was the smaller of
the two) commended by the gentleman in the Wellington boots, who
vowed he had been just such another at the same age. Joseph
wondered to himself if he had worn at that time little
Wellingtons and a little bald head, and when, in bed at night, he
grew tired of telling himself stories of sea-fights, he used to
dress himself up as the old gentleman, and entertain other little
boys and girls with cake and wine.

In the year 1840 the thirty-seven were all alive; in 1850 their
number had decreased by six; in 1856 and 1857 business was more
lively, for the Crimea and the Mutiny carried off no less than
nine. There remained in 1870 but five of the original members,
and at the date of my story, including the two Finsburys, but
three.

By this time Masterman was in his seventy-third year; he had long
complained of the effects of age, had long since retired from
business, and now lived in absolute seclusion under the roof of
his son Michael, the well-known solicitor. Joseph, on the other
hand, was still up and about, and still presented but a
semi-venerable figure on the streets in which he loved to wander.
This was the more to be deplored because Masterman had led (even
to the least particular) a model British life. Industry,
regularity, respectability, and a preference for the four per
cents are understood to be the very foundations of a green old
age. All these Masterman had eminently displayed, and here he
was, ab agendo, at seventy-three; while Joseph, barely two years
younger, and in the most excellent preservation, had disgraced
himself through life by idleness and eccentricity. Embarked in
the leather trade, he had early wearied of business, for which he
was supposed to have small parts. A taste for general
information, not promptly checked, had soon begun to sap his
manhood. There is no passion more debilitating to the mind,
unless, perhaps, it be that itch of public speaking which it not
infrequently accompanies or begets. The two were conjoined in the
case of Joseph; the acute stage of this double malady, that in
which the patient delivers gratuitous lectures, soon declared
itself with severity, and not many years had passed over his head
before he would have travelled thirty miles to address an infant
school. He was no student; his reading was confined to elementary
textbooks and the daily papers; he did not even fly as high as
cyclopedias; life, he would say, was his volume. His lectures
were not meant, he would declare, for college professors; they
were addressed direct to 'the great heart of the people', and the
heart of the people must certainly be sounder than its head, for
his lucubrations were received with favour. That entitled 'How to
Live Cheerfully on Forty Pounds a Year', created a sensation
among the unemployed. 'Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes,
and Desirability', gained him the respect of the shallow-minded.
As for his celebrated essay on 'Life Insurance Regarded in its
Relation to the Masses', read before the Working Men's Mutual
Improvement Society, Isle of Dogs, it was received with a
'literal ovation' by an unintelligent audience of both sexes, and
so marked was the effect that he was next year elected honorary
president of the institution, an office of less than no
emolument--since the holder was expected to come down with a
donation--but one which highly satisfied his self-esteem.

While Joseph was thus building himself up a reputation among the
more cultivated portion of the ignorant, his domestic life was
suddenly overwhelmed by orphans. The death of his younger brother
Jacob saddled him with the charge of two boys, Morris and John;
and in the course of the same year his family was still further
swelled by the addition of a little girl, the daughter of John
Henry Hazeltine, Esq., a gentleman of small property and fewer
friends. He had met Joseph only once, at a lecture-hall in
Holloway; but from that formative experience he returned home to
make a new will, and consign his daughter and her fortune to the
lecturer. Joseph had a kindly disposition; and yet it was not
without reluctance that he accepted this new responsibility,
advertised for a nurse, and purchased a second-hand perambulator.
Morris and John he made more readily welcome; not so much because
of the tie of consanguinity as because the leather business (in
which he hastened to invest their fortune of thirty thousand
pounds) had recently exhibited inexplicable symptoms of decline.
A young but capable Scot was chosen as manager to the enterprise,
and the cares of business never again afflicted Joseph Finsbury.
Leaving his charges in the hands of the capable Scot (who was
married), he began his extensive travels on the Continent and in
Asia Minor.

With a polyglot Testament in one hand and a phrase-book in the
other, he groped his way among the speakers of eleven European
languages. The first of these guides is hardly applicable to the
purposes of the philosophic traveller, and even the second is
designed more expressly for the tourist than for the expert in
life. But he pressed interpreters into his service--whenever he
could get their services for nothing--and by one means and
another filled many notebooks with the results of his researches.

In these wanderings he spent several years, and only returned to
England when the increasing age of his charges needed his
attention. The two lads had been placed in a good but economical
school, where they had received a sound commercial education;
which was somewhat awkward, as the leather business was by no
means in a state to court enquiry. In fact, when Joseph went over
his accounts preparatory to surrendering his trust, he was
dismayed to discover that his brother's fortune had not increased
by his stewardship; even by making over to his two wards every
penny he had in the world, there would still be a deficit of
seven thousand eight hundred pounds. When these facts were
communicated to the two brothers in the presence of a lawyer,
Morris Finsbury threatened his uncle with all the terrors of the
law, and was only prevented from taking extreme steps by the
advice of the professional man.  'You cannot get blood from a
stone,' observed the lawyer.

And Morris saw the point and came to terms with his uncle. On the
one side, Joseph gave up all that he possessed, and assigned to
his nephew his contingent interest in the tontine, already quite
a hopeful speculation. On the other, Morris agreed to harbour his
uncle and Miss Hazeltine (who had come to grief with the rest),
and to pay to each of them one pound a month as pocket-money. The
allowance was amply sufficient for the old man; it scarce appears
how Miss Hazeltine contrived to dress upon it; but she did, and,
what is more, she never complained. She was, indeed, sincerely
attached to her incompetent guardian. He had never been unkind;
his age spoke for him loudly; there was something appealing in
his whole-souled quest of knowledge and innocent delight in the
smallest mark of admiration; and, though the lawyer had warned
her she was being sacrificed, Julia had refused to add to the
perplexities of Uncle Joseph.

In a large, dreary house in John Street, Bloomsbury, these four
dwelt together; a family in appearance, in reality a financial
association. Julia and Uncle Joseph were, of course, slaves;
John, a gentle man with a taste for the banjo, the music-hall,
the Gaiety bar, and the sporting papers, must have been anywhere
a secondary figure; and the cares and delights of empire devolved
entirely upon Morris. That these are inextricably intermixed is
one of the commonplaces with which the bland essayist consoles
the incompetent and the obscure, but in the case of Morris the
bitter must have largely outweighed the sweet. He grudged no
trouble to himself, he spared none to others; he called the
servants in the morning, he served out the stores with his own
hand, he took soundings of the sherry, he numbered the remainder
biscuits; painful scenes took place over the weekly bills, and
the cook was frequently impeached, and the tradespeople came and
hectored with him in the back parlour upon a question of three
farthings. The superficial might have deemed him a miser; in his
own eyes he was simply a man who had been defrauded; the world
owed him seven thousand eight hundred pounds, and he intended
that the world should pay.

But it was in his dealings with Joseph that Morris's character
particularly shone. His uncle was a rather gambling stock in
which he had invested heavily; and he spared no pains in nursing
the security. The old man was seen monthly by a physician,
whether he was well or ill. His diet, his raiment, his occasional
outings, now to Brighton, now to Bournemouth, were doled out to
him like pap to infants. In bad weather he must keep the house.
In good weather, by half-past nine, he must be ready in the hall;
Morris would see that he had gloves and that his shoes were
sound; and the pair would start for the leather business arm in
arm. The way there was probably dreary enough, for there was no
pretence of friendly feeling; Morris had never ceased to upbraid
his guardian with his defalcation and to lament the burthen of
Miss Hazeltine; and Joseph, though he was a mild enough soul,
regarded his nephew with something very near akin to hatred. But
the way there was nothing to the journey back; for the mere sight
of the place of business, as well as every detail of its
transactions, was enough to poison life for any Finsbury.

Joseph's name was still over the door; it was he who still signed
the cheques; but this was only policy on the part of Morris, and
designed to discourage other members of the tontine. In reality
the business was entirely his; and he found it an inheritance of
sorrows. He tried to sell it, and the offers he received were
quite derisory. He tried to extend it, and it was only the
liabilities he succeeded in extending; to restrict it, and it was
only the profits he managed to restrict. Nobody had ever made
money out of that concern except the capable Scot, who retired
(after his discharge) to the neighbourhood of Banff and built a
castle with his profits. The memory of this fallacious Caledonian
Morris would revile daily, as he sat in the private office
opening his mail, with old Joseph at another table, sullenly
awaiting orders, or savagely affixing signatures to he knew not
what. And when the man of the heather pushed cynicism so far as
to send him the announcement of his second marriage (to Davida,
eldest daughter of the Revd. Alexander McCraw), it was really
supposed that Morris would have had a fit.

Business hours, in the Finsbury leather trade, had been cut to
the quick; even Morris's strong sense of duty to himself was not
strong enough to dally within those walls and under the shadow of
that bankruptcy; and presently the manager and the clerks would
draw a long breath, and compose themselves for another day of
procrastination. Raw Haste, on the authority of my Lord Tennyson,
is half-sister to Delay; but the Business Habits are certainly
her uncles. Meanwhile, the leather merchant would lead his living
investment back to John Street like a puppy dog; and, having
there immured him in the hall, would depart for the day on the
quest of seal rings, the only passion of his life. Joseph had
more than the vanity of man, he had that of lecturers. He owned
he was in fault, although more sinned against (by the capable
Scot) than sinning; but had he steeped his hands in gore, he
would still not deserve to be thus dragged at the chariot-wheels
of a young man, to sit a captive in the halls of his own leather
business, to be entertained with mortifying comments on his whole
career--to have his costume examined, his collar pulled up, the
presence of his mittens verified, and to be taken out and brought
home in custody, like an infant with a nurse. At the thought of
it his soul would swell with venom, and he would make haste to
hang up his hat and coat and the detested mittens, and slink
upstairs to Julia and his notebooks. The drawing-room at least
was sacred from Morris; it belonged to the old man and the young
girl; it was there that she made her dresses; it was there that
he inked his spectacles over the registration of disconnected
facts and the calculation of insignificant statistics.

Here he would sometimes lament his connection with the tontine.
'If it were not for that,' he cried one afternoon, 'he would not
care to keep me. I might be a free man, Julia. And I could so
easily support myself by giving lectures.'

'To be sure you could,' said she; 'and I think it one of the
meanest things he ever did to deprive you of that amusement.
There were those nice people at the Isle of Cats (wasn't it?) who
wrote and asked you so very kindly to give them an address. I did
think he might have let you go to the Isle of Cats.'

'He is a man of no intelligence,' cried Joseph. 'He lives here
literally surrounded by the absorbing spectacle of life, and for
all the good it does him, he might just as well be in his coffin.
Think of his opportunities! The heart of any other young man
would burn within him at the chance. The amount of information
that I have it in my power to convey, if he would only listen, is
a thing that beggars language, Julia.'

'Whatever you do, my dear, you mustn't excite yourself,' said
Julia; 'for you know, if you look at all ill, the doctor will be
sent for.'

'That is very true,' returned the old man humbly, 'I will compose
myself with a little study.' He thumbed his gallery of notebooks.
'I wonder,' he said, 'I wonder (since I see your hands are
occupied) whether it might not interest you--'

'Why, of course it would,' cried Julia. 'Read me one of your nice
stories, there's a dear.'

He had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose
instanter, as though to forestall some possible retractation.
'What I propose to read to you,' said he, skimming through the
pages, 'is the notes of a highly important conversation with a
Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas, which is the Latin for
abbot. Its results are well worth the money it cost me, for, as
Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was induced to
(what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It runs
only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is.' He cleared
his throat, and began to read.

Mr Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four
hundred and ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and
elicited from Abbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who
did not require to listen; for the Dutch courier, who had to
answer, it must have been a perfect nightmare. It would seem as
if he had consoled himself by frequent appliances to the bottle;
it would even seem that (toward the end) he had ceased to depend
on Joseph's frugal generosity and called for the flagon on his
own account. The effect, at least, of some mellowing influence
was visible in the record: Abbas became suddenly a willing
witness; he began to volunteer disclosures; and Julia had just
looked up from her seam with something like a smile, when Morris
burst into the house, eagerly calling for his uncle, and the next
instant plunged into the room, waving in the air the evening
paper.

It was indeed with great news that he came charged. The demise
was announced of Lieutenant-General Sir Glasgow Biggar, KCSI,
KCMG, etc., and the prize of the tontine now lay between the
Finsbury brothers. Here was Morris's opportunity at last. The
brothers had never, it is true, been cordial. When word came that
Joseph was in Asia Minor, Masterman had expressed himself with
irritation. 'I call it simply indecent,' he had said. 'Mark my
words--we shall hear of him next at the North Pole.' And these
bitter expressions had been reported to the traveller on his
return. What was worse, Masterman had refused to attend the
lecture on 'Education: Its Aims, Objects, Purposes, and
Desirability', although invited to the platform. Since then the
brothers had not met. On the other hand, they never had openly
quarrelled; Joseph (by Morris's orders) was prepared to waive the
advantage of his juniority; Masterman had enjoyed all through
life the reputation of a man neither greedy nor unfair. Here,
then, were all the elements of compromise assembled; and Morris,
suddenly beholding his seven thousand eight hundred pounds
restored to him, and himself dismissed from the vicissitudes of
the leather trade, hastened the next morning to the office of his
cousin Michael.

Michael was something of a public character. Launched upon the
law at a very early age, and quite without protectors, he had
become a trafficker in shady affairs. He was known to be the man
for a lost cause; it was known he could extract testimony from a
stone, and interest from a gold-mine; and his office was besieged
in consequence by all that numerous class of persons who have
still some reputation to lose, and find themselves upon the point
of losing it; by those who have made undesirable acquaintances,
who have mislaid a compromising correspondence, or who are
blackmailed by their own butlers. In private life Michael was a
man of pleasure; but it was thought his dire experience at the
office had gone far to sober him, and it was known that (in the
matter of investments) he preferred the solid to the brilliant.
What was yet more to the purpose, he had been all his life a
consistent scoffer at the Finsbury tontine.

It was therefore with little fear for the result that Morris
presented himself before his cousin, and proceeded feverishly to
set forth his scheme. For near upon a quarter of an hour the
lawyer suffered him to dwell upon its manifest advantages
uninterrupted. Then Michael rose from his seat, and, ringing for
his clerk, uttered a single clause: 'It won't do, Morris.'

It was in vain that the leather merchant pleaded and reasoned,
and returned day after day to plead and reason. It was in vain
that he offered a bonus of one thousand, of two thousand, of
three thousand pounds; in vain that he offered, in Joseph's name,
to be content with only one-third of the pool. Still there came
the same answer: 'It won't do.'

'I can't see the bottom of this,' he said at last. 'You answer
none of my arguments; you haven't a word to say. For my part, I
believe it's malice.'

The lawyer smiled at him benignly. 'You may believe one thing,'
said he. 'Whatever else I do, I am not going to gratify any of
your curiosity. You see I am a trifle more communicative today,
because this is our last interview upon the subject.'

'Our last interview!' cried Morris.

'The stirrup-cup, dear boy,' returned Michael. 'I can't have my
business hours encroached upon. And, by the by, have you no
business of your own? Are there no convulsions in the leather
trade?'

'I believe it to be malice,' repeated Morris doggedly. 'You
always hated and despised me from a boy.'

'No, no--not hated,' returned Michael soothingly. 'I rather like
you than otherwise; there's such a permanent surprise about you,
you look so dark and attractive from a distance. Do you know that
to the naked eye you look romantic?--like what they call a man
with a history? And indeed, from all that I can hear, the history
of the leather trade is full of incident.'

'Yes,' said Morris, disregarding these remarks, 'it's no use
coming here. I shall see your father.'

'O no, you won't,' said Michael. 'Nobody shall see my father.'

'I should like to know why,' cried his cousin.

'I never make any secret of that,' replied the lawyer. 'He is too
ill.'

'If he is as ill as you say,' cried the other, 'the more reason
for accepting my proposal. I will see him.'

'Will you?' said Michael, and he rose and rang for his clerk.

It was now time, according to Sir Faraday Bond, the medical
baronet whose name is so familiar at the foot of bulletins, that
Joseph (the poor Golden Goose) should be removed into the purer
air of Bournemouth; and for that uncharted wilderness of villas
the family now shook off the dust of Bloomsbury; Julia delighted,
because at Bournemouth she sometimes made acquaintances; John in
despair, for he was a man of city tastes; Joseph indifferent
where he was, so long as there was pen and ink and daily papers,
and he could avoid martyrdom at the office; Morris himself,
perhaps, not displeased to pretermit these visits to the city,
and have a quiet time for thought. He was prepared for any
sacrifice; all he desired was to get his money again and clear
his feet of leather; and it would be strange, since he was so
modest in his desires, and the pool amounted to upward of a
hundred and sixteen thousand pounds--it would be strange indeed
if he could find no way of influencing Michael. 'If I could only
guess his reason,' he repeated to himself; and by day, as he
walked in Branksome Woods, and by night, as he turned upon his
bed, and at meal-times, when he forgot to eat, and in the bathing
machine, when he forgot to dress himself, that problem was
constantly before him: Why had Michael refused?

At last, one night, he burst into his brother's room and woke
him.

'What's all this?' asked John.

'Julia leaves this place tomorrow,' replied Morris. 'She must go
up to town and get the house ready, and find servants. We shall
all follow in three days.'

'Oh, brayvo!' cried John. 'But why?'

'I've found it out, John,' returned his brother gently.

'It? What?' enquired John.

'Why Michael won't compromise,' said Morris. 'It's because he
can't. It's because Masterman's dead, and he's keeping it dark.'

'Golly!' cried the impressionable John. 'But what's the use? Why
does he do it, anyway?'

'To defraud us of the tontine,' said his brother.

'He couldn't; you have to have a doctor's certificate,' objected
John.

'Did you never hear of venal doctors?' enquired Morris. 'They're
as common as blackberries: you can pick 'em up for
three-pound-ten a head.'

'I wouldn't do it under fifty if I were a sawbones,' ejaculated
John.

'And then Michael,' continued Morris, 'is in the very thick of
it. All his clients have come to grief; his whole business is
rotten eggs. If any man could arrange it, he could; and depend
upon it, he has his plan all straight; and depend upon it, it's a
good one, for he's clever, and be damned to him! But I'm clever
too; and I'm desperate. I lost seven thousand eight hundred
pounds when I was an orphan at school.'

'O, don't be tedious,' interrupted John. 'You've lost far more
already trying to get it back.'

CHAPTER II. In Which Morris takes Action

Some days later, accordingly, the three males of this depressing
family might have been observed (by a reader of G. P. R. James)
taking their departure from the East Station of Bournemouth. The
weather was raw and changeable, and Joseph was arrayed in
consequence according to the principles of Sir Faraday Bond, a
man no less strict (as is well known) on costume than on diet.
There are few polite invalids who have not lived, or tried to
live, by that punctilious physician's orders. 'Avoid tea, madam,'
the reader has doubtless heard him say, 'avoid tea, fried liver,
antimonial wine, and bakers' bread. Retire nightly at 10.45; and
clothe yourself (if you please) throughout in hygienic flannel.
Externally, the fur of the marten is indicated. Do not forget to
procure a pair of health boots at Messrs Dail and Crumbie's.' And
he has probably called you back, even after you have paid your
fee, to add with stentorian emphasis: 'I had forgotten one
caution: avoid kippered sturgeon as you would the very devil.'
The unfortunate Joseph was cut to the pattern of Sir Faraday in
every button; he was shod with the health boot; his suit was of
genuine ventilating cloth; his shirt of hygienic flannel, a
somewhat dingy fabric; and he was draped to the knees in the
inevitable greatcoat of marten's fur. The very railway porters at
Bournemouth (which was a favourite station of the doctor's)
marked the old gentleman for a creature of Sir Faraday. There was
but one evidence of personal taste, a vizarded forage cap; from
this form of headpiece, since he had fled from a dying jackal on
the plains of Ephesus, and weathered a bora in the Adriatic,
nothing could divorce our traveller.

The three Finsburys mounted into their compartment, and fell
immediately to quarrelling, a step unseemly in itself and (in
this case) highly unfortunate for Morris. Had he lingered a
moment longer by the window, this tale need never have been
written. For he might then have observed (as the porters did not
fail to do) the arrival of a second passenger in the uniform of
Sir Faraday Bond. But he had other matters on hand, which he
judged (God knows how erroneously) to be more important.

'I never heard of such a thing,' he cried, resuming a discussion
which had scarcely ceased all morning. 'The bill is not yours; it
is mine.'

'It is payable to me,' returned the old gentleman, with an air of
bitter obstinacy. 'I will do what I please with my own property.'

The bill was one for eight hundred pounds, which had been given
him at breakfast to endorse, and which he had simply pocketed.

'Hear him, Johnny!' cried Morris. 'His property! the very clothes
upon his back belong to me.'

'Let him alone,' said John. 'I am sick of both of you.'

'That is no way to speak of your uncle, sir,' cried Joseph. 'I
will not endure this disrespect. You are a pair of exceedingly
forward, impudent, and ignorant young men, and I have quite made
up my mind to put an end to the whole business.'.

'O skittles!' said the graceful John.

But Morris was not so easy in his mind. This unusual act of
insubordination had already troubled him; and these mutinous
words now sounded ominously in his ears. He looked at the old
gentleman uneasily. Upon one occasion, many years before, when
Joseph was delivering a lecture, the audience had revolted in a
body; finding their entertainer somewhat dry, they had taken the
question of amusement into their own hands; and the lecturer
(along with the board schoolmaster, the Baptist clergyman, and a
working-man's candidate, who made up his bodyguard) was
ultimately driven from the scene. Morris had not been present on
that fatal day; if he had, he would have recognized a certain
fighting glitter in his uncle's eye, and a certain chewing
movement of his lips, as old acquaintances. But even to the
inexpert these symptoms breathed of something dangerous.

'Well, well,' said Morris. 'I have no wish to bother you further
till we get to London.'

Joseph did not so much as look at him in answer; with tremulous
hands he produced a copy of the British Mechanic, and
ostentatiously buried himself in its perusal.

'I wonder what can make him so cantankerous?' reflected the
nephew. 'I don't like the look of it at all.' And he dubiously
scratched his nose.

The train travelled forth into the world, bearing along with it
the customary freight of obliterated voyagers, and along with
these old Joseph, affecting immersion in his paper, and John
slumbering over the columns of the Pink Un, and Morris revolving
in his mind a dozen grudges, and suspicions, and alarms. It
passed Christchurch by the sea, Herne with its pinewoods,
Ringwood on its mazy river. A little behind time, but not much
for the South-Western, it drew up at the platform of a station,
in the midst of the New Forest, the real name of which (in case
the railway company 'might have the law of me') I shall veil
under the alias of Browndean.

Many passengers put their heads to the window, and among the rest
an old gentleman on whom I willingly dwell, for I am nearly done
with him now, and (in the whole course of the present narrative)
I am not in the least likely to meet another character so decent.
His name is immaterial, not so his habits. He had passed his life
wandering in a tweed suit on the continent of Europe; and years
of Galignani's Messenger having at length undermined his
eyesight, he suddenly remembered the rivers of Assyria and came
to London to consult an oculist. From the oculist to the dentist,
and from both to the physician, the step appears inevitable;
presently he was in the hands of Sir Faraday, robed in
ventilating cloth and sent to Bournemouth; and to that
domineering baronet (who was his only friend upon his native
soil) he was now returning to report. The case of these
tweedsuited wanderers is unique. We have all seen them entering
the table d'hote (at Spezzia, or Grdtz, or Venice) with a genteel
melancholy and a faint appearance of having been to India and not
succeeded. In the offices of many hundred hotels they are known
by name; and yet, if the whole of this wandering cohort were to
disappear tomorrow, their absence would be wholly unremarked. How
much more, if only one--say this one in the ventilating
cloth--should vanish! He had paid his bills at Bournemouth; his
worldly effects were all in the van in two portmanteaux, and
these after the proper interval would be sold as unclaimed
baggage to a Jew; Sir Faraday's butler would be a half-crown
poorer at the year's end, and the hotelkeepers of Europe about
the same date would be mourning a small but quite observable
decline in profits. And that would be literally all. Perhaps the
old gentleman thought something of the sort, for he looked
melancholy enough as he pulled his bare, grey head back into the
carriage, and the train smoked under the bridge, and forth, with
ever quickening speed, across the mingled heaths and woods of the
New Forest.

Not many hundred yards beyond Browndean, however, a sudden
jarring of brakes set everybody's teeth on edge, and there was a
brutal stoppage. Morris Finsbury was aware of a confused uproar
of voices, and sprang to the window. Women were screaming, men
were tumbling from the windows on the track, the guard was crying
to them to stay where they were; at the same time the train began
to gather way and move very slowly backward toward Browndean; and
the next moment--, all these various sounds were blotted out in
the apocalyptic whistle and the thundering onslaught of the down
express.

The actual collision Morris did not hear. Perhaps he fainted. He
had a wild dream of having seen the carriage double up and fall
to pieces like a pantomime trick; and sure enough, when he came
to himself, he was lying on the bare earth and under the open
sky. His head ached savagely; he carried his hand to his brow,
and was not surprised to see it red with blood. The air was
filled with an intolerable, throbbing roar, which he expected to
find die away with the return of consciousness; and instead of
that it seemed but to swell the louder and to pierce the more
cruelly through his ears. It was a raging, bellowing thunder,
like a boiler-riveting factory.

And now curiosity began to stir, and he sat up and looked about
him. The track at this point ran in a sharp curve about a wooded
hillock; all of the near side was heaped with the wreckage of the
Bournemouth train; that of the express was mostly hidden by the
trees; and just at the turn, under clouds of vomiting steam and
piled about with cairns of living coal, lay what remained of the
two engines, one upon the other. On the heathy margin of the line
were many people running to and fro, and crying aloud as they
ran, and many others lying motionless like sleeping tramps.

Morris suddenly drew an inference. 'There has been an accident'
thought he, and was elated at his perspicacity. Almost at the
same time his eye lighted on John, who lay close by as white as
paper. 'Poor old John! poor old cove!' he thought, the schoolboy
expression popping forth from some forgotten treasury, and he
took his brother's hand in his with childish tenderness. It was
perhaps the touch that recalled him; at least John opened his
eyes, sat suddenly up, and after several ineffectual movements of
his lips, 'What's the row?' said he, in a phantom voice.

The din of that devil's smithy still thundered in their ears.
'Let us get away from that,' Morris cried, and pointed to the
vomit of steam that still spouted from the broken engines. And
the pair helped each other up, and stood and quaked and wavered
and stared about them at the scene of death.

Just then they were approached by a party of men who had already
organized themselves for the purposes of rescue.

'Are you hurt?' cried one of these, a young fellow with the sweat
streaming down his pallid face, and who, by the way he was
treated, was evidently the doctor.

Morris shook his head, and the young man, nodding grimly, handed
him a bottle of some spirit.

'Take a drink of that,' he said; 'your friend looks as if he
needed it badly. We want every man we can get,' he added;
'there's terrible work before us, and nobody should shirk. If you
can do no more, you can carry a stretcher.'

The doctor was hardly gone before Morris, under the spur of the
dram, awoke to the full possession of his wits.

'My God!' he cried. 'Uncle Joseph!'

'Yes,' said John, 'where can he be? He can't be far off. I hope
the old party isn't damaged.'

'Come and help me to look,' said Morris, with a snap of savage
determination strangely foreign to his ordinary bearing; and
then, for one moment, he broke forth. 'If he's dead!' he cried,
and shook his fist at heaven.

To and fro the brothers hurried, staring in the faces of the
wounded, or turning the dead upon their backs. They must have
thus examined forty people, and still there was no word of Uncle
Joseph. But now the course of their search brought them near the
centre of the collision, where the boilers were still blowing off
steam with a deafening clamour. It was a part of the field not
yet gleaned by the rescuing party. The ground, especially on the
margin of the wood, was full of inequalities--here a pit, there a
hillock surmounted with a bush of furze. It was a place where
many bodies might lie concealed, and they beat it like pointers
after game. Suddenly Morris, who was leading, paused and reached
forth his index with a tragic gesture. John followed the
direction of his brother's hand.

In the bottom of a sandy hole lay something that had once been
human. The face had suffered severely, and it was unrecognizable;
but that was not required. The snowy hair, the coat of marten,
the ventilating cloth, the hygienic flannel--everything down to
the health boots from Messrs Dail and Crumbie's, identified the
body as that of Uncle Joseph. Only the forage cap must have been
lost in the convulsion, for the dead man was bareheaded.

'The poor old beggar!' said John, with a touch of natural
feeling; 'I would give ten pounds if we hadn't chivvied him in
the train!'

But there was no sentiment in the face of Morris as he gazed upon
the dead. Gnawing his nails, with introverted eyes, his brow
marked with the stamp of tragic indignation and tragic
intellectual effort, he stood there silent. Here was a last
injustice; he had been robbed while he was an orphan at school,
he had been lashed to a decadent leather business, he had been
saddled with Miss Hazeltine, his cousin had been defrauding him
of the tontine, and he had borne all this, we might almost say,
with dignity, and now they had gone and killed his uncle!

'Here!' he said suddenly, 'take his heels, we must get him into
the woods. I'm not going to have anybody find this.'

'O, fudge!' said John, 'where's the use?'

'Do what I tell you,' spirted Morris, as he took the corpse by
the shoulders. 'Am I to carry him myself?'

They were close upon the borders of the wood; in ten or twelve
paces they were under cover; and a little further back, in a
sandy clearing of the trees, they laid their burthen down, and
stood and looked at it with loathing.

'What do you mean to do?' whispered John.

'Bury him, to be sure,' responded Morris, and he opened his
pocket-knife and began feverishly to dig.

'You'll never make a hand of it with that,' objected the other.

'If you won't help me, you cowardly shirk,' screamed Morris, 'you
can go to the devil!'

'It's the childishest folly,' said John; 'but no man shall call
me a coward,' and he began to help his brother grudgingly.

The soil was sandy and light, but matted with the roots of the
surrounding firs. Gorse tore their hands; and as they baled the
sand from the grave, it was often discoloured with their blood.
An hour passed of unremitting energy upon the part of Morris, of
lukewarm help on that of John; and still the trench was barely
nine inches in depth. Into this the body was rudely flung: sand
was piled upon it, and then more sand must be dug, and gorse had
to be cut to pile on that; and still from one end of the sordid
mound a pair of feet projected and caught the light upon their
patent-leather toes. But by this time the nerves of both were
shaken; even Morris had enough of his grisly task; and they
skulked off like animals into the thickest of the neighbouring
covert.

'It's the best that we can do,' said Morris, sitting down.

'And now,' said John, 'perhaps you'll have the politeness to tell
me what it's all about.'

'Upon my word,' cried Morris, 'if you do not understand for
yourself, I almost despair of telling you.'

'O, of course it's some rot about the tontine,' returned the
other. 'But it's the merest nonsense. We've lost it, and there's
an end.'

'I tell you,' said Morris, 'Uncle Masterman is dead. I know it,
there's a voice that tells me so.'

'Well, and so is Uncle Joseph,' said John.

'He's not dead, unless I choose,' returned Morris.

'And come to that,' cried John, 'if you're right, and Uncle
Masterman's been dead ever so long, all we have to do is to tell
the truth and expose Michael.'

'You seem to think Michael is a fool,' sneered Morris. 'Can't you
understand he's been preparing this fraud for years? He has the
whole thing ready: the nurse, the doctor, the undertaker, all
bought, the certificate all ready but the date! Let him get wind
of this business, and you mark my words, Uncle Masterman will die
in two days and be buried in a week. But see here, Johnny; what
Michael can do, I can do. If he plays a game of bluff, so can I.
If his father is to live for ever, by God, so shall my uncle!'

'It's illegal, ain't it?' said John.

'A man must have SOME moral courage,' replied Morris with
dignity.

'And then suppose you're wrong? Suppose Uncle Masterman's alive
and kicking?'

'Well, even then,' responded the plotter, 'we are no worse off
than we were before; in fact, we're better. Uncle Masterman must
die some day; as long as Uncle Joseph was alive, he might have
died any day; but we're out of all that trouble now: there's no
sort of limit to the game that I propose--it can be kept up till
Kingdom Come.'

'If I could only see how you meant to set about it' sighed John.
'But you know, Morris, you always were such a bungler.'

'I'd like to know what I ever bungled,' cried Morris; 'I have the
best collection of signet rings in London.'

'Well, you know, there's the leather business,' suggested the
other. 'That's considered rather a hash.'

It was a mark of singular self-control in Morris that he suffered
this to pass unchallenged, and even unresented.

'About the business in hand,' said he, 'once we can get him up to
Bloomsbury, there's no sort of trouble. We bury him in the
cellar, which seems made for it; and then all I have to do is to
start out and find a venal doctor.'

'Why can't we leave him where he is?' asked John.

'Because we know nothing about the country,' retorted Morris.
'This wood may be a regular lovers' walk. Turn your mind to the
real difficulty. How are we to get him up to Bloomsbury?'

Various schemes were mooted and rejected. The railway station at
Browndean was, of course, out of the question, for it would now
be a centre of curiosity and gossip, and (of all things) they
would be least able to dispatch a dead body without remark. John
feebly proposed getting an ale-cask and sending it as beer, but
the objections to this course were so overwhelming that Morris
scorned to answer. The purchase of a packing-case seemed equally
hopeless, for why should two gentlemen without baggage of any
kind require a packing-case? They would be more likely to require
clean linen.

'We are working on wrong lines,' cried Morris at last. 'The thing
must be gone about more carefully. Suppose now,' he added
excitedly, speaking by fits and starts, as if he were thinking
aloud, 'suppose we rent a cottage by the month. A householder can
buy a packing-case without remark. Then suppose we clear the
people out today, get the packing-case tonight, and tomorrow I
hire a carriage or a cart that we could drive ourselves--and take
the box, or whatever we get, to Ringwood or Lyndhurst or
somewhere; we could label it "specimens", don't you see? Johnny,
I believe I've hit the nail at last.'

'Well, it sounds more feasible,' admitted John.

'Of course we must take assumed names,' continued Morris. 'It
would never do to keep our own. What do you say to "Masterman"
itself? It sounds quiet and dignified.'

'I will NOT take the name of Masterman,' returned his brother;
'you may, if you like. I shall call myself Vance--the Great
Vance; positively the last six nights. There's some go in a name
like that.'

'Vance?' cried Morris. 'Do you think we are playing a pantomime
for our amusement? There was never anybody named Vance who wasn't
a music-hall singer.'

'That's the beauty of it,' returned John; 'it gives you some
standing at once. You may call yourself Fortescue till all's
blue, and nobody cares; but to be Vance gives a man a natural
nobility.'

'But there's lots of other theatrical names,' cried Morris.
'Leybourne, Irving, Brough, Toole--'

'Devil a one will I take!' returned his brother. 'I am going to
have my little lark out of this as well as you.'

'Very well,' said Morris, who perceived that John was determined
to carry his point, 'I shall be Robert Vance.'

'And I shall be George Vance,' cried John, 'the only original
George Vance! Rally round the only original!'

Repairing as well as they were able the disorder of their
clothes, the Finsbury brothers returned to Browndean by a
circuitous route in quest of luncheon and a suitable cottage. It
is not always easy to drop at a moment's notice on a furnished
residence in a retired locality; but fortune presently introduced
our adventurers to a deaf carpenter, a man rich in cottages of
the required description, and unaffectedly eager to supply their
wants. The second place they visited, standing, as it did, about
a mile and a half from any neighbours, caused them to exchange a
glance of hope. On a nearer view, the place was not without
depressing features. It stood in a marshy-looking hollow of a
heath; tall trees obscured its windows; the thatch visibly rotted
on the rafters; and the walls were stained with splashes of
unwholesome green. The rooms were small, the ceilings low, the
furniture merely nominal; a strange chill and a haunting smell of
damp pervaded the kitchen; and the bedroom boasted only of one
bed.

Morris, with a view to cheapening the place, remarked on this
defect.

'Well,' returned the man; 'if you can't sleep two abed, you'd
better take a villa residence.'

'And then,' pursued Morris, 'there's no water. How do you get
your water?'

'We fill THAT from the spring,' replied the carpenter, pointing
to a big barrel that stood beside the door. 'The spring ain't so
VERY far off, after all, and it's easy brought in buckets.
There's a bucket there.'

Morris nudged his brother as they examined the water-butt. It was
new, and very solidly constructed for its office. If anything had
been wanting to decide them, this eminently practical barrel
would have turned the scale. A bargain was promptly struck, the
month's rent was paid upon the nail, and about an hour later the
Finsbury brothers might have been observed returning to the
blighted cottage, having along with them the key, which was the
symbol of their tenancy, a spirit-lamp, with which they fondly
told themselves they would be able to cook, a pork pie of
suitable dimensions, and a quart of the worst whisky in
Hampshire. Nor was this all they had effected; already (under the
plea that they were landscape-painters) they had hired for dawn
on the morrow a light but solid two-wheeled cart; so that when
they entered in their new character, they were able to tell
themselves that the back of the business was already broken.

John proceeded to get tea; while Morris, foraging about the
house, was presently delighted by discovering the lid of the
water-butt upon the kitchen shelf. Here, then, was the
packing-case complete; in the absence of straw, the blankets
(which he himself, at least, had not the smallest intention of
using for their present purpose) would exactly take the place of
packing; and Morris, as the difficulties began to vanish from his
path, rose almost to the brink of exultation. There was, however,
one difficulty not yet faced, one upon which his whole scheme
depended. Would John consent to remain alone in the cottage? He
had not yet dared to put the question.

It was with high good-humour that the pair sat down to the deal
table, and proceeded to fall-to on the pork pie. Morris retailed
the discovery of the lid, and the Great Vance was pleased to
applaud by beating on the table with his fork in true music-hall
style.

'That's the dodge,' he cried. 'I always said a water-butt was
what you wanted for this business.'

'Of course,' said Morris, thinking this a favourable opportunity
to prepare his brother, 'of course you must stay on in this place
till I give the word; I'll give out that uncle is resting in the
New Forest. It would not do for both of us to appear in London;
we could never conceal the absence of the old man.'

John's jaw dropped.

'O, come!' he cried. 'You can stay in this hole yourself. I
won't.'

The colour came into Morris's cheeks. He saw that he must win his
brother at any cost.

'You must please remember, Johnny,' he said, 'the amount of the
tontine. If I succeed, we shall have each fifty thousand to place
to our bank account; ay, and nearer sixty.'

'But if you fail,' returned John, 'what then? What'll be the
colour of our bank account in that case?'

'I will pay all expenses,' said Morris, with an inward struggle;
'you shall lose nothing.'

'Well,' said John, with a laugh, 'if the ex-s are yours, and
half-profits mine, I don't mind remaining here for a couple of
days.'

'A couple of days!' cried Morris, who was beginning to get angry
and controlled himself with difficulty; 'why, you would do more
to win five pounds on a horse-race!'

'Perhaps I would,' returned the Great Vance; 'it's the artistic
temperament.'

'This is monstrous!' burst out Morris. 'I take all risks; I pay
all expenses; I divide profits; and you won't take the slightest
pains to help me. It's not decent; it's not honest; it's not even
kind.'

'But suppose,' objected John, who was considerably impressed by
his brother's vehemence, 'suppose that Uncle Masterman is alive
after all, and lives ten years longer; must I rot here all that
time?'

'Of course not,' responded Morris, in a more conciliatory tone;
'I only ask a month at the outside; and if Uncle Masterman is not
dead by that time you can go abroad.'

'Go abroad?' repeated John eagerly. 'Why shouldn't I go at once?
Tell 'em that Joseph and I are seeing life in Paris.'

'Nonsense,' said Morris.

'Well, but look here,' said John; 'it's this house, it's such a
pig-sty, it's so dreary and damp. You said yourself that it was
damp.'

'Only to the carpenter,' Morris distinguished, 'and that was to
reduce the rent. But really, you know, now we're in it, I've seen
worse.'

'And what am I to do?' complained the victim. 'How can I
entertain a friend?'

'My dear Johnny, if you don't think the tontine worth a little
trouble, say so, and I'll give the business up.'

'You're dead certain of the figures, I suppose?' asked John.
'Well'--with a deep sigh--'send me the Pink Un and all the comic
papers regularly. I'll face the music.'

As afternoon drew on, the cottage breathed more thrillingly of
its native marsh; a creeping chill inhabited its chambers; the
fire smoked, and a shower of rain, coming up from the channel on
a slant of wind, tingled on the window-panes. At intervals, when
the gloom deepened toward despair, Morris would produce the
whisky-bottle, and at first John welcomed the diversion--not for
long. It has been said this spirit was the worst in Hampshire;
only those acquainted with the county can appreciate the force of
that superlative; and at length even the Great Vance (who was no
connoisseur) waved the decoction from his lips. The approach of
dusk, feebly combated with a single tallow candle, added a touch
of tragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his
fingers--an art to the practice of which he had been reduced--and
bitterly lamented his concessions.

'I can't stay here a month,' he cried. 'No one could. The thing's
nonsense, Morris. The parties that lived in the Bastille would
rise against a place like this.'

With an admirable affectation of indifference, Morris proposed a
game of pitch-and-toss. To what will not the diplomatist
condescend! It was John's favourite game; indeed his only
game--he had found all the rest too intellectual--and he played
it with equal skill and good fortune. To Morris himself, on the
other hand, the whole business was detestable; he was a bad
pitcher, he had no luck in tossing, and he was one who suffered
torments when he lost. But John was in a dangerous humour, and
his brother was prepared for any sacrifice.

By seven o'clock, Morris, with incredible agony, had lost a
couple of half-crowns. Even with the tontine before his eyes,
this was as much as he could bear; and, remarking that he would
take his revenge some other time, he proposed a bit of supper and
a grog.

Before they had made an end of this refreshment it was time to be
at work. A bucket of water for present necessities was withdrawn
from the water-butt, which was then emptied and rolled before the
kitchen fire to dry; and the two brothers set forth on their
adventure under a starless heaven.

CHAPTER III. The Lecturer at Large

Whether mankind is really partial to happiness is an open
question. Not a month passes by but some cherished son runs off
into the merchant service, or some valued husband decamps to
Texas with a lady help; clergymen have fled from their
parishioners; and even judges have been known to retire. To an
open mind, it will appear (upon the whole) less strange that
Joseph Finsbury should have been led to entertain ideas of
escape. His lot (I think we may say) was not a happy one. My
friend, Mr Morris, with whom I travel up twice or thrice a week
from Snaresbrook Park, is certainly a gentleman whom I esteem;
but he was scarce a model nephew. As for John, he is of course an
excellent fellow; but if he was the only link that bound one to a
home, I think the most of us would vote for foreign travel. In
the case of Joseph, John (if he were a link at all) was not the
only one; endearing bonds had long enchained the old gentleman to
Bloomsbury; and by these expressions I do not in the least refer
to Julia Hazeltine (of whom, however, he was fond enough), but to
that collection of manuscript notebooks in which his life lay
buried. That he should ever have made up his mind to separate
himself from these collections, and go forth upon the world with
no other resources than his memory supplied, is a circumstance
highly pathetic in itself, and but little creditable to the
wisdom of his nephews.

The design, or at least the temptation, was already some months
old; and when a bill for eight hundred pounds, payable to
himself, was suddenly placed in Joseph's hand, it brought matters
to an issue. He retained that bill, which, to one of his
frugality, meant wealth; and he promised himself to disappear
among the crowds at Waterloo, or (if that should prove
impossible) to slink out of the house in the course of the
evening and melt like a dream into the millions of London. By a
peculiar interposition of Providence and railway mismanagement he
had not so long to wait.

He was one of the first to come to himself and scramble to his
feet after the Browndean catastrophe, and he had no sooner
remarked his prostrate nephews than he understood his opportunity
and fled. A man of upwards of seventy, who has just met with a
railway accident, and who is cumbered besides with the full
uniform of Sir Faraday Bond, is not very likely to flee far, but
the wood was close at hand and offered the fugitive at least a
temporary covert. Hither, then, the old gentleman skipped with
extraordinary expedition, and, being somewhat winded and a good
deal shaken, here he lay down in a convenient grove and was
presently overwhelmed by slumber. The way of fate is often highly
entertaining to the looker-on, and it is certainly a pleasant
circumstance, that while Morris and John were delving in the sand
to conceal the body of a total stranger, their uncle lay in
dreamless sleep a few hundred yards deeper in the wood.

He was awakened by the jolly note of a bugle from the
neighbouring high road, where a char-a-banc was bowling by with
some belated tourists. The sound cheered his old heart, it
directed his steps into the bargain, and soon he was on the
highway, looking east and west from under his vizor, and
doubtfully revolving what he ought to do. A deliberate sound of
wheels arose in the distance, and then a cart was seen
approaching, well filled with parcels, driven by a good-natured
looking man on a double bench, and displaying on a board the
legend, 'I Chandler, carrier'. In the infamously prosaic mind of
Mr Finsbury, certain streaks of poetry survived and were still
efficient; they had carried him to Asia Minor as a giddy youth of
forty, and now, in the first hours of his recovered freedom, they
suggested to him the idea of continuing his flight in Mr
Chandler's cart. It would be cheap; properly broached, it might
even cost nothing, and, after years of mittens and hygienic
flannel, his heart leaped out to meet the notion of exposure.

Mr Chandler was perhaps a little puzzled to find so old a
gentleman, so strangely clothed, and begging for a lift on so
retired a roadside. But he was a good-natured man, glad to do a
service, and so he took the stranger up; and he had his own idea
of civility, and so he asked no questions. Silence, in fact, was
quite good enough for Mr Chandler; but the cart had scarcely
begun to move forward ere he found himself involved in a
one-sided conversation.

'I can see,' began Mr Finsbury, 'by the mixture of parcels and
boxes that are contained in your cart, each marked with its
individual label, and by the good Flemish mare you drive, that
you occupy the post of carrier in that great English system of
transport which, with all its defects, is the pride of our
country.'

'Yes, sir,' returned Mr Chandler vaguely, for he hardly knew what
to reply; 'them parcels posts has done us carriers a world of
harm.'

'I am not a prejudiced man,' continued Joseph Finsbury. 'As a
young man I travelled much. Nothing was too small or too obscure
for me to acquire. At sea I studied seamanship, learned the
complicated knots employed by mariners, and acquired the
technical terms. At Naples, I would learn the art of making
macaroni; at Nice, the principles of making candied fruit. I
never went to the opera without first buying the book of the
piece, and making myself acquainted with the principal airs by
picking them out on the piano with one finger.'

'You must have seen a deal, sir,' remarked the carrier, touching
up his horse; 'I wish I could have had your advantages.'

'Do you know how often the word whip occurs in the Old
Testament?' continued the old gentleman. 'One hundred and (if I
remember exactly) forty-seven times.'

'Do it indeed, sir?' said Mr Chandler. 'I never should have
thought it.'

'The Bible contains three million five hundred and one thousand
two hundred and forty-nine letters. Of verses I believe there are
upward of eighteen thousand. There have been many editions of the
Bible; Wycliff was the first to introduce it into England about
the year 1300. The "Paragraph Bible", as it is called, is a
well-known edition, and is so called because it is divided into
paragraphs. The "Breeches Bible" is another well-known instance,
and gets its name either because it was printed by one Breeches,
or because the place of publication bore that name.'

The carrier remarked drily that he thought that was only natural,
and turned his attention to the more congenial task of passing a
cart of hay; it was a matter of some difficulty, for the road was
narrow, and there was a ditch on either hand.

'I perceive,' began Mr Finsbury, when they had successfully
passed the cart, 'that you hold your reins with one hand; you
should employ two.'

'Well, I like that!' cried the carrier contemptuously. 'Why?'

'You do not understand,' continued Mr Finsbury. 'What I tell you
is a scientific fact, and reposes on the theory of the lever, a
branch of mechanics. There are some very interesting little
shilling books upon the field of study, which I should think a
man in your station would take a pleasure to read. But I am
afraid you have not cultivated the art of observation; at least
we have now driven together for some time, and I cannot remember
that you have contributed a single fact. This is a very false
principle, my good man. For instance, I do not know if you
observed that (as you passed the hay-cart man) you took your
left?'

'Of course I did,' cried the carrier, who was now getting
belligerent; 'he'd have the law on me if I hadn't.'

'In France, now,' resumed the old man, 'and also, I believe, in
the

United States of America, you would have taken the right.'

'I would not,' cried Mr Chandler indignantly. 'I would have taken
the left.'

'I observe again,' continued Mr Finsbury, scorning to reply,
'that you mend the dilapidated parts of your harness with string.
I have always protested against this carelessness and
slovenliness of the English poor. In an essay that I once read
before an appreciative audience--'

'It ain't string,' said the carrier sullenly, 'it's pack-thread.'

'I have always protested,' resumed the old man, 'that in their
private and domestic life, as well as in their labouring career,
the lower classes of this country are improvident, thriftless,
and extravagant. A stitch in time--'

'Who the devil ARE the lower classes?' cried the carrier. 'You
are the lower classes yourself! If I thought you were a blooming
aristocrat, I shouldn't have given you a lift.'

The words were uttered with undisguised ill-feeling; it was plain
the pair were not congenial, and further conversation, even to
one of Mr Finsbury's pathetic loquacity, was out of the question.
With an angry gesture, he pulled down the brim of the forage-cap
over his eyes, and, producing a notebook and a blue pencil from
one of his innermost pockets, soon became absorbed in
calculations.

On his part the carrier fell to whistling with fresh zest; and if
(now and again) he glanced at the companion of his drive, it was
with mingled feelings of triumph and alarm--triumph because he
had succeeded in arresting that prodigy of speech, and alarm lest
(by any accident) it should begin again. Even the shower, which
presently overtook and passed them, was endured by both in
silence; and it was still in silence that they drove at length
into Southampton.

Dusk had fallen; the shop windows glimmered forth into the
streets of the old seaport; in private houses lights were kindled
for the evening meal; and Mr Finsbury began to think complacently
of his night's lodging. He put his papers by, cleared his throat,
and looked doubtfully at Mr Chandler.

'Will you be civil enough,' said he, 'to recommend me to an inn?'
Mr Chandler pondered for a moment.

'Well,' he said at last, 'I wonder how about the "Tregonwell
Arms".'

'The "Tregonwell Arms" will do very well,' returned the old man,
'if it's clean and cheap, and the people civil.'

'I wasn't thinking so much of you,' returned Mr Chandler
thoughtfully. 'I was thinking of my friend Watts as keeps the
'ouse; he's a friend of mine, you see, and he helped me through
my trouble last year. And I was thinking, would it be fair-like
on Watts to saddle him with an old party like you, who might be
the death of him with general information. Would it be fair to
the 'ouse?' enquired Mr Chandler, with an air of candid appeal.

'Mark me,' cried the old gentleman with spirit. 'It was kind in
you to bring me here for nothing, but it gives you no right to
address me in such terms. Here's a shilling for your trouble;
and, if you do not choose to set me down at the "Tregonwell
Arms", I can find it for myself.'

Chandler was surprised and a little startled; muttering something
apologetic, he returned the shilling, drove in silence through
several intricate lanes and small streets, drew up at length
before the bright windows of an inn, and called loudly for Mr
Watts.

'Is that you, Jem?' cried a hearty voice from the stableyard.
'Come in and warm yourself.'

'I only stopped here,' Mr Chandler explained, 'to let down an old
gent that wants food and lodging. Mind, I warn you agin him; he's
worse nor a temperance lecturer.'

Mr Finsbury dismounted with difficulty, for he was cramped with
his long drive, and the shaking he had received in the accident.
The friendly Mr Watts, in spite of the carter's scarcely
agreeable introduction, treated the old gentleman with the utmost
courtesy, and led him into the back parlour, where there was a
big fire burning in the grate. Presently a table was spread in
the same room, and he was invited to seat himself before a stewed
fowl--somewhat the worse for having seen service before--and a
big pewter mug of ale from the tap.

He rose from supper a giant refreshed; and, changing his seat to
one nearer the fire, began to examine the other guests with an
eye to the delights of oratory. There were near a dozen present,
all men, and (as Joseph exulted to perceive) all working men.
Often already had he seen cause to bless that appetite for
disconnected fact and rotatory argument which is so marked a
character of the mechanic. But even an audience of working men
has to be courted, and there was no man more deeply versed in the
necessary arts than Joseph Finsbury. He placed his glasses on his
nose, drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, and spread them
before him on a table. He crumpled them, he smoothed them out;
now he skimmed them over, apparently well pleased with their
contents; now, with tapping pencil and contracted brows, he
seemed maturely to consider some particular statement. A stealthy
glance about the room assured him of the success of his
manoeuvres; all eyes were turned on the performer, mouths were
open, pipes hung suspended; the birds were charmed. At the same
moment the entrance of Mr Watts afforded him an opportunity.

'I observe,' said he, addressing the landlord, but taking at the
same time the whole room into his confidence with an encouraging
look, 'I observe that some of these gentlemen are looking with
curiosity in my direction; and certainly it is unusual to see
anyone immersed in literary and scientific labours in the public
apartment of an inn. I have here some calculations I made this
morning upon the cost of living in this and other countries--a
subject, I need scarcely say, highly interesting to the working
classes. I have calculated a scale of living for incomes of
eighty, one hundred and sixty, two hundred, and two hundred and
forty pounds a year. I must confess that the income of eighty
pounds has somewhat baffled me, and the others are not so exact
as I could wish; for the price of washing varies largely in
foreign countries, and the different cokes, coals and firewoods
fluctuate surprisingly. I will read my researches, and I hope you
won't scruple to point out to me any little errors that I may
have committed either from oversight or ignorance. I will begin,
gentlemen, with the income of eighty pounds a year.'

Whereupon the old gentleman, with less compassion than he would
have had for brute beasts, delivered himself of all his tedious
calculations. As he occasionally gave nine versions of a single
income, placing the imaginary person in London, Paris, Bagdad,
Spitzbergen, Bassorah, Heligoland, the Scilly Islands, Brighton,
Cincinnati, and Nijni-Novgorod, with an appropriate outfit for
each locality, it is no wonder that his hearers look back on that
evening as the most tiresome they ever spent.

Long before Mr Finsbury had reached Nijni-Novgorod with the
income of one hundred and sixty pounds, the company had dwindled
and faded away to a few old topers and the bored but affable
Watts. There was a constant stream of customers from the outer
world, but so soon as they were served they drank their liquor
quickly and departed with the utmost celerity for the next
public-house.

By the time the young man with two hundred a year was vegetating
in the Scilly Islands, Mr Watts was left alone with the
economist; and that imaginary person had scarce commenced life at
Brighton before the last of his pursuers desisted from the chase.

Mr Finsbury slept soundly after the manifold fatigues of the day.
He rose late, and, after a good breakfast, ordered the bill. Then
it was that he made a discovery which has been made by many
others, both before and since: that it is one thing to order your
bill, and another to discharge it. The items were moderate and
(what does not always follow) the total small; but, after the
most sedulous review of all his pockets, one and nine pence
halfpenny appeared to be the total of the old gentleman's
available assets. He asked to see Mr Watts.

'Here is a bill on London for eight hundred pounds,' said Mr
Finsbury, as that worthy appeared. 'I am afraid, unless you
choose to discount it yourself, it may detain me a day or two
till I can get it cashed.'

Mr Watts looked at the bill, turned it over, and dogs-eared it
with his fingers. 'It will keep you a day or two?' he said,
repeating the old man's words. 'You have no other money with
you?'

'Some trifling change,' responded Joseph. 'Nothing to speak of.'

'Then you can send it me; I should be pleased to trust you.'

'To tell the truth,' answered the old gentleman, 'I am more than
half inclined to stay; I am in need of funds.'

'If a loan of ten shillings would help you, it is at your
service,' responded Watts, with eagerness.

'No, I think I would rather stay,' said the old man, 'and get my
bill discounted.'

'You shall not stay in my house,' cried Mr Watts. 'This is the
last time you shall have a bed at the "Tregonwell Arms".'

'I insist upon remaining,' replied Mr Finsbury, with spirit; 'I
remain by Act of Parliament; turn me out if you dare.'

'Then pay your bill,' said Mr Watts.

'Take that,' cried the old man, tossing him the negotiable bill.

'It is not legal tender,' replied Mr Watts. 'You must leave my
house at once.'

'You cannot appreciate the contempt I feel for you, Mr Watts,'
said the old gentleman, resigning himself to circumstances. 'But
you shall feel it in one way: I refuse to pay my bill.'

'I don't care for your bill,' responded Mr Watts. 'What I want is
your absence.'

'That you shall have!' said the old gentleman, and, taking up his
forage cap as he spoke, he crammed it on his head. 'Perhaps you
are too insolent,' he added, 'to inform me of the time of the
next London train?'

'It leaves in three-quarters of an hour,' returned the innkeeper
with alacrity. 'You can easily catch it.'

Joseph's position was one of considerable weakness. On the one
hand, it would have been well to avoid the direct line of
railway, since it was there he might expect his nephews to lie in
wait for his recapture; on the other, it was highly desirable, it
was even strictly needful, to get the bill discounted ere it
should be stopped. To London, therefore, he decided to proceed on
the first train; and there remained but one point to be
considered, how to pay his fare.

Joseph's nails were never clean; he ate almost entirely with his
knife. I doubt if you could say he had the manners of a
gentleman; but he had better than that, a touch of genuine
dignity. Was it from his stay in Asia Minor? Was it from a strain
in the Finsbury blood sometimes alluded to by customers? At
least, when he presented himself before the station-master, his
salaam was truly Oriental, palm-trees appeared to crowd about the
little office, and the simoom or the bulbul--but I leave this
image to persons better acquainted with the East. His appearance,
besides, was highly in his favour; the uniform of Sir Faraday,
however inconvenient and conspicuous, was, at least, a costume in
which no swindler could have hoped to prosper; and the exhibition
of a valuable watch and a bill for eight hundred pounds completed
what deportment had begun. A quarter of an hour later, when the
train came up, Mr Finsbury was introduced to the guard and
installed in a first-class compartment, the station-master
smilingly assuming all responsibility.

As the old gentleman sat waiting the moment of departure, he was
the witness of an incident strangely connected with the fortunes
of his house. A packing-case of cyclopean bulk was borne along
the platform by some dozen of tottering porters, and ultimately,
to the delight of a considerable crowd, hoisted on board the van.
It is often the cheering task of the historian to direct
attention to the designs and (if it may be reverently said) the
artifices of Providence. In the luggage van, as Joseph was borne
out of the station of Southampton East upon his way to London,
the egg of his romance lay (so to speak) unhatched. The huge
packing-case was directed to lie at Waterloo till called for, and
addressed to one 'William Dent Pitman'; and the very next
article, a goodly barrel jammed into the corner of the van, bore
the superscription, 'M. Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury.
Carriage paid.'

In this juxtaposition, the train of powder was prepared; and
there was now wanting only an idle hand to fire it off.

CHAPTER IV. The Magistrate in the Luggage Van

The city of Winchester is famed for a cathedral, a bishop--but he
was unfortunately killed some years ago while riding--a public
school, a considerable assortment of the military, and the
deliberate passage of the trains of the London and South-Western
line. These and many similar associations would have doubtless
crowded on the mind of Joseph Finsbury; but his spirit had at
that time flitted from the railway compartment to a heaven of
populous lecture-halls and endless oratory. His body, in the
meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap rakishly
tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for
nursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent, one arm clutching to
his heart Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper.

To him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of
voyagers. These two had saved the train and no more. A tandem
urged to its last speed, an act of something closely bordering on
brigandage at the ticket office, and a spasm of running, had
brought them on the platform just as the engine uttered its
departing snort. There was but one carriage easily within their
reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader and elder
already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr
Finsbury.

'Good God!' he cried. 'Uncle Joseph! This'll never do.'

And he backed out, almost upsetting his companion, and once more
closed the door upon the sleeping patriarch.

The next moment the pair had jumped into the baggage van.

'What's the row about your Uncle Joseph?' enquired the younger
traveller, mopping his brow. 'Does he object to smoking?'

'I don't know that there's anything the row with him,' returned
the other. 'He's by no means the first comer, my Uncle Joseph, I
can tell you! Very respectable old gentleman; interested in
leather; been to Asia Minor; no family, no assets--and a tongue,
my dear Wickham, sharper than a serpent's tooth.'

'Cantankerous old party, eh?' suggested Wickham.

'Not in the least,' cried the other; 'only a man with a solid
talent for being a bore; rather cheery I dare say, on a desert
island, but on a railway journey insupportable. You should hear
him on Tonti, the ass that started tontines. He's incredible on
Tonti.'

'By Jove!' cried Wickham, 'then you're one of these Finsbury
tontine fellows. I hadn't a guess of that.'

'Ah!' said the other, 'do you know that old boy in the carriage
is worth a hundred thousand pounds to me? There he was asleep,
and nobody there but you! But I spared him, because I'm a
Conservative in politics.'

Mr Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and
fro like a gentlemanly butterfly.

'By Jingo!' he cried, 'here's something for you! "M. Finsbury, 16
John Street, Bloomsbury, London." M. stands for Michael, you sly
dog; you keep two establishments, do you?'

'O, that's Morris,' responded Michael from the other end of the
van, where he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks. 'He's
a little cousin of mine. I like him myself, because he's afraid
of me. He's one of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, and has a
collection of some kind--birds' eggs or something that's supposed
to be curious. I bet it's nothing to my clients!'

'What a lark it would be to play billy with the labels!' chuckled
Mr Wickham. 'By George, here's a tack-hammer! We might send all
these things skipping about the premises like what's-his-name!'

At this moment, the guard, surprised by the sound of voices,
opened the door of his little cabin.

'You had best step in here, gentlemen,' said he, when he had
heard their story.

'Won't you come, Wickham?' asked Michael.

'Catch me--I want to travel in a van,' replied the youth.

And so the door of communication was closed; and for the rest of
the run Mr Wickham was left alone over his diversions on the one
side, and on the other Michael and the guard were closeted
together in familiar talk.

'I can get you a compartment here, sir,' observed the official,
as the train began to slacken speed before Bishopstoke station.
'You had best get out at my door, and I can bring your friend.'

Mr Wickham, whom we left (as the reader has shrewdly suspected)
beginning to 'play billy' with the labels in the van, was a young
gentleman of much wealth, a pleasing but sandy exterior, and a
highly vacant mind. Not many months before, he had contrived to
get himself blackmailed by the family of a Wallachian Hospodar,
resident for political reasons in the gay city of Paris. A common
friend (to whom he had confided his distress) recommended him to
Michael; and the lawyer was no sooner in possession of the facts
than he instantly assumed the offensive, fell on the flank of the
Wallachian forces, and, in the inside of three days, had the
satisfaction to behold them routed and fleeing for the Danube. It
is no business of ours to follow them on this retreat, over which
the police were so obliging as to preside paternally. Thus
relieved from what he loved to refer to as the Bulgarian
Atrocity, Mr Wickham returned to London with the most unbounded
and embarrassing gratitude and admiration for his saviour. These
sentiments were not repaid either in kind or degree; indeed,
Michael was a trifle ashamed of his new client's friendship; it
had taken many invitations to get him to Winchester and Wickham
Manor; but he had gone at last, and was now returning. It has
been remarked by some judicious thinker (possibly J. F. Smith)
that Providence despises to employ no instrument, however humble;
and it is now plain to the dullest that both Mr Wickham and the
Wallachian Hospodar were liquid lead and wedges in the hand of
Destiny.

Smitten with the desire to shine in Michael's eyes and show
himself a person of original humour and resources, the young
gentleman (who was a magistrate, more by token, in his native
county) was no sooner alone in the van than he fell upon the
labels with all the zeal of a reformer; and, when he rejoined the
lawyer at Bishopstoke, his face was flushed with his exertions,
and his cigar, which he had suffered to go out was almost bitten
in two.

'By George, but this has been a lark!' he cried. 'I've sent the
wrong thing to everybody in England. These cousins of yours have
a packing-case as big as a house. I've muddled the whole business
up to that extent, Finsbury, that if it were to get out it's my
belief we should get lynched.'

It was useless to be serious with Mr Wickham. 'Take care,' said
Michael. 'I am getting tired of your perpetual scrapes; my
reputation is beginning to suffer.'

'Your reputation will be all gone before you finish with me,'
replied his companion with a grin. 'Clap it in the bill, my boy.
"For total loss of reputation, six and eightpence." But,'
continued Mr Wickham with more seriousness, 'could I be bowled
out of the Commission for this little jest? I know it's small,
but I like to be a JP. Speaking as a professional man, do you
think there's any risk?'

'What does it matter?' responded Michael, 'they'll chuck you out
sooner or later. Somehow you don't give the effect of being a
good magistrate.'

'I only wish I was a solicitor,' retorted his companion, 'instead
of a poor devil of a country gentleman. Suppose we start one of
those tontine affairs ourselves; I to pay five hundred a year,
and you to guarantee me against every misfortune except illness
or marriage.'

'It strikes me,' remarked the lawyer with a meditative laugh, as
he lighted a cigar, 'it strikes me that you must be a cursed
nuisance in this world of ours.'

'Do you really think so, Finsbury?' responded the magistrate,
leaning back in his cushions, delighted with the compliment.
'Yes, I suppose I am a nuisance. But, mind you, I have a stake in
the country: don't forget that, dear boy.'

CHAPTER V

Mr Gideon Forsyth and the Gigantic Box

It has been mentioned that at Bournemouth Julia sometimes made
acquaintances; it is true she had but a glimpse of them before
the doors of John Street closed again upon its captives, but the
glimpse was sometimes exhilarating, and the consequent regret was
tempered with hope. Among those whom she had thus met a year
before was a young barrister of the name of Gideon Forsyth.

About three o'clock of the eventful day when the magistrate
tampered with the labels, a somewhat moody and distempered ramble
had carried Mr Forsyth to the corner of John Street; and about
the same moment Miss Hazeltine was called to the door of No. 16
by a thundering double knock.

Mr Gideon Forsyth was a happy enough young man; he would have
been happier if he had had more money and less uncle. One hundred
and twenty pounds a year was all his store; but his uncle, Mr
Edward Hugh Bloomfield, supplemented this with a handsome
allowance and a great deal of advice, couched in language that
would probably have been judged intemperate on board a pirate
ship. Mr Bloomfield was indeed a figure quite peculiar to the
days of Mr Gladstone; what we may call (for the lack of an
accepted expression) a Squirradical. Having acquired years
without experience, he carried into the Radical side of politics
those noisy, after-dinner-table passions, which we are more
accustomed to connect with Toryism in its severe and senile
aspects. To the opinions of Mr Bradlaugh, in fact, he added the
temper and the sympathies of that extinct animal, the Squire; he
admired pugilism, he carried a formidable oaken staff, he was a
reverent churchman, and it was hard to know which would have more
volcanically stirred his choler--a person who should have
defended the established church, or one who should have neglected
to attend its celebrations. He had besides some levelling
catchwords, justly dreaded in the family circle; and when he
could not go so far as to declare a step un-English, he might
still (and with hardly less effect) denounce it as unpractical.
It was under the ban of this lesser excommunication that Gideon
had fallen. His views on the study of law had been pronounced
unpractical; and it had been intimated to him, in a vociferous
interview punctuated with the oaken staff, that he must either
take a new start and get a brief or two, or prepare to live on
his own money.

No wonder if Gideon was moody. He had not the slightest wish to
modify his present habits; but he would not stand on that, since
the recall of Mr Bloomfield's allowance would revolutionize them
still more radically. He had not the least desire to acquaint
himself with law; he had looked into it already, and it seemed
not to repay attention; but upon this also he was ready to give
way. In fact, he would go as far as he could to meet the views of
his uncle, the Squirradical. But there was one part of the
programme that appeared independent of his will. How to get a
brief? there was the question. And there was another and a worse.
Suppose he got one, should he prove the better man?

Suddenly he found his way barred by a crowd. A garishly
illuminated van was backed against the kerb; from its open stern,
half resting on the street, half supported by some glistening
athletes, the end of the largest packing-case in the county of
Middlesex might have been seen protruding; while, on the steps of
the house, the burly person of the driver and the slim figure of
a young girl stood as upon a stage, disputing.

'It is not for us,' the girl was saying. 'I beg you to take it
away; it couldn't get into the house, even if you managed to get
it out of the van.'

'I shall leave it on the pavement, then, and M. Finsbury can
arrange with the Vestry as he likes,' said the vanman.

'But I am not M. Finsbury,' expostulated the girl.

'It doesn't matter who you are,' said the vanman.

'You must allow me to help you, Miss Hazeltine,' said Gideon,
putting out his hand.

Julia gave a little cry of pleasure. 'O, Mr Forsyth,' she cried,
'I am so glad to see you; we must get this horrid thing, which
can only have come here by mistake, into the house. The man says
we'll have to take off the door, or knock two of our windows into
one, or be fined by the Vestry or Custom House or something for
leaving our parcels on the pavement.'

The men by this time had successfully removed the box from the
van, had plumped it down on the pavement, and now stood leaning
against it, or gazing at the door of No. 16, in visible physical
distress and mental embarrassment. The windows of the whole
street had filled, as if by magic, with interested and
entertained spectators.

With as thoughtful and scientific an expression as he could
assume, Gideon measured the doorway with his cane, while Julia
entered his observations in a drawing-book. He then measured the
box, and, upon comparing his data, found that there was just
enough space for it to enter. Next, throwing off his coat and
waistcoat, he assisted the men to take the door from its hinges.
And lastly, all bystanders being pressed into the service, the
packing-case mounted the steps upon some fifteen pairs of
wavering legs--scraped, loudly grinding, through the doorway--and
was deposited at length, with a formidable convulsion, in the far
end of the lobby, which it almost blocked. The artisans of this
victory smiled upon each other as the dust subsided. It was true
they had smashed a bust of Apollo and ploughed the wall into deep
ruts; but, at least, they were no longer one of the public
spectacles of London.

'Well, sir,' said the vanman, 'I never see such a job.'

Gideon eloquently expressed his concurrence in this sentiment by
pressing a couple of sovereigns in the man's hand.

'Make it three, sir, and I'll stand Sam to everybody here!' cried
the latter, and, this having been done, the whole body of
volunteer porters swarmed into the van, which drove off in the
direction of the nearest reliable public-house. Gideon closed the
door on their departure, and turned to Julia; their eyes met; the
most uncontrollable mirth seized upon them both, and they made
the house ring with their laughter. Then curiosity awoke in
Julia's mind, and she went and examined the box, and more
especially the label.

'This is the strangest thing that ever happened,' she said, with
another burst of laughter. 'It is certainly Morris's handwriting,
and I had a letter from him only this morning, telling me to
expect a barrel. Is there a barrel coming too, do you think, Mr
Forsyth?'

"'Statuary with Care, Fragile,'" read Gideon aloud from the
painted warning on the box. 'Then you were told nothing about
this?'

'No,' responded Julia. 'O, Mr Forsyth, don't you think we might
take a peep at it?'

'Yes, indeed,' cried Gideon. 'Just let me have a hammer.'

'Come down, and I'll show you where it is,' cried Julia. 'The
shelf is too high for me to reach'; and, opening the door of the
kitchen stair, she bade Gideon follow her. They found both the
hammer and a chisel; but Gideon was surprised to see no sign of a
servant. He also discovered that Miss Hazeltine had a very pretty
little foot and ankle; and the discovery embarrassed him so much
that he was glad to fall at once upon the packing-case.

He worked hard and earnestly, and dealt his blows with the
precision of a blacksmith; Julia the while standing silently by
his side, and regarding rather the workman than the work. He was
a handsome fellow; she told herself she had never seen such
beautiful arms. And suddenly, as though he had overheard these
thoughts, Gideon turned and smiled to her. She, too, smiled and
coloured; and the double change became her so prettily that
Gideon forgot to turn away his eyes, and, swinging the hammer
with a will, discharged a smashing blow on his own knuckles. With
admirable presence of mind he crushed down an oath and
substituted the harmless comment, 'Butter fingers!' But the pain
was sharp, his nerve was shaken, and after an abortive trial he
found he must desist from further operations.

In a moment Julia was off to the pantry; in a moment she was back
again with a basin of water and a sponge, and had begun to bathe
his wounded hand.

'I am dreadfully sorry!' said Gideon apologetically. 'If I had
had any manners I should have opened the box first and smashed my
hand afterward. It feels much better,' he added. 'I assure you it
does.'

'And now I think you are well enough to direct operations,' said
she. 'Tell me what to do, and I'll be your workman.'

'A very pretty workman,' said Gideon, rather forgetting himself.
She turned and looked at him, with a suspicion of a frown; and
the indiscreet young man was glad to direct her attention to the
packing-case. The bulk of the work had been accomplished; and
presently Julia had burst through the last barrier and disclosed
a zone of straw. in a moment they were kneeling side by side,
engaged like haymakers; the next they were rewarded with a
glimpse of something white and polished; and the next again laid
bare an unmistakable marble leg.

'He is surely a very athletic person,' said Julia.

'I never saw anything like it,' responded Gideon. 'His muscles
stand out like penny rolls.'

Another leg was soon disclosed, and then what seemed to be a
third. This resolved itself, however, into a knotted club resting
upon a pedestal.

'It is a Hercules,' cried Gideon; 'I might have guessed that from
his calf. I'm supposed to be rather partial to statuary, but when
it comes to Hercules, the police should interfere. I should say,'
he added, glancing with disaffection at the swollen leg, 'that
this was about the biggest and the worst in Europe. What in
heaven's name can have induced him to come here?'

'I suppose nobody else would have a gift of him,' said Julia.
'And for that matter, I think we could have done without the
monster very well.'

'O, don't say that,' returned Gideon. 'This has been one of the
most amusing experiences of my life.'

'I don't think you'll forget it very soon,' said Julia. 'Your
hand will remind you.'

'Well, I suppose I must be going,' said Gideon reluctantly. 'No,'
pleaded Julia. 'Why should you? Stay and have tea with me.'

'If I thought you really wished me to stay,' said Gideon, looking
at his hat, 'of course I should only be too delighted.'

'What a silly person you must take me for!' returned the girl.
'Why, of course I do; and, besides, I want some cakes for tea,
and I've nobody to send. Here is the latchkey.'

Gideon put on his hat with alacrity, and casting one look at Miss
Hazeltine, and another at the legs of Hercules, threw open the
door and departed on his errand.

He returned with a large bag of the choicest and most tempting of
cakes and tartlets, and found Julia in the act of spreading a
small tea-table in the lobby.

"The rooms are a