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       

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