LITMIR.BIZ

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way.'

      "You heard me, you donkey!" retorted the bearded gentleman. "What was the good of your turning that glass against me in the very nick when I dashed on you?"

      "Well, 't ain't my fault, I swear," said Crummins. "The wind catches voices so on a pitch dark night, you never can tell whether they be on one shoulder or the other. And if I'm to go and lose my place through no fault of mine–"

      "Have n't I told you, sir, I'm going to pay the damage? Here," said the gentleman, fumbling at his waistcoat, "here, take this card. Read it."

      For the first time during the scene in the carpenter's shop, a certain pomposity swelled the gentleman's tone. His delivery of the card appeared to act on him like the flourish of a trumpet before great men.

      "Van Diemen Smith," he proclaimed himself for the assistance of Ned Crummins in his task; the latter's look of sad concern on receiving the card seeming to declare an unscholarly conscience.

      An anxious feminine voice was heard close beside Mr. Van Diemen Smith.

      "Oh, papa, has there been an accident? Are you hurt?"

      "Not a bit, Netty; not a bit. Walked into a big looking-glass in the dark, that's all. A matter of eight or ten pound, and that won't stump us. But these are what I call queer doings in Old England, when you can't take a step in the dark, on the seashore without plunging bang into a glass. And it looks like bad luck to my visit to old Mart Tinman."

      "Can you," he addressed the company, "tell me of a clean, wholesome lodging-house? I was thinking of flinging myself, body and baggage, on your mayor, or whatever he is—my old schoolmate; but I don't so much like this beginning. A couple of bed-rooms and sitting-room; clean sheets, well aired; good food, well cooked; payment per week in advance."

      The pebble dropped into deep water speaks of its depth by the tardy arrival of bubbles on the surface, and, in like manner, the very simple question put by Mr. Van Diemen Smith pursued its course of penetration in the assembled mind in the carpenter's shop for a considerable period, with no sign to show that it had reached the bottom.

      "Surely, papa, we can go to an inn? There must be some hotel," said his daughter.

      "There's good accommodation at the Cliff Hotel hard by," said Crickledon.

      "But," said one of his friends, "if you don't want to go so far, sir, there's Master Crickledon's own house next door, and his wife lets lodgings, and there's not a better cook along this coast."

      "Then why did n't the man mention it? Is he afraid of having me?" asked

      Mr. Smith, a little thunderingly. "I may n't be known much yet in

      England; but I'll tell you, you inquire the route to Mr. Van Diemen Smith

      over there in Australia."

      "Yes, papa," interrupted his daughter, "only you must consider that it may not be convenient to take us in at this hour—so late."

      "It's not that, miss, begging your pardon," said Crickledon. "I make a point of never recommending my own house. That's where it is. Otherwise you're welcome to try us."

      "I was thinking of falling bounce on my old schoolmate, and putting Old

      English hospitality to the proof," Mr. Smith meditated. "But it's late.

      Yes, and that confounded glass! No, we'll bide with you, Mr. Carpenter.

      I'll send my card across to Mart Tinman to-morrow, and set him agog at

      his breakfast."

      Mr. Van Diemen Smith waved his hand for Crickledon to lead the way.

      Hereupon Ned Crummins looked up from the card he had been turning over and over, more and more like one arriving at a condemnatory judgment of a fish.

      "I can't go and give my master a card instead of his glass," he remarked.

      "Yes, that reminds me; and I should like to know what you meant by bringing that glass away from Mr. Tinman's house at night," said Mr. Smith. "If I'm to pay for it, I've a right to know. What's the meaning of moving it at night? Eh, let's hear. Night's not the time for moving big glasses like that. I'm not so sure I haven't got a case."

      "If you'll step round to my master along o' me, sir," said Crummins, "perhaps he'll explain."

      Crummins was requested to state who his master was, and he replied,

      "Phippun and Company;" but Mr. Smith positively refused to go with him.

      "But here," said he, "is a crown for you, for you're a civil fellow.

      You'll know where to find me in the morning; and mind, I shall expect

      Phippun and Company to give me a very good account of their reason for

      moving a big looking-glass on a night like this. There, be off."

      The crown-piece in his hand effected a genial change in Crummins' disposition to communicate. Crickledon spoke to him about the glass; two or three of the others present jogged him. "What did Mr. Tinman want by having the glass moved so late in the day, Ned? Your master wasn't nervous about his property, was he?"

      "Not he," said Crummins, and began to suck down his upper lip and agitate his eyelids and stand uneasily, glimmering signs of the setting in of the tide of narration.

      He caught the eye of Mr. Smith, then looked abashed at Miss.

      Crickledon saw his dilemma. "Say what's uppermost, Ned; never mind how you says it. English is English. Mr. Tinman sent for you to take the glass away, now, did n't he?"

      "He did," said Crummins.

      "And you went to him."

      "Ay, that I did."

      "And he fastened the chiwal glass upon your back"

      "He did that."

      "That's all plain sailing. Had he bought the glass?"

      "No, he had n't bought it. He'd hired it."

      As when upon an enforced visit to the dentist, people have had one tooth out, the remaining offenders are more willingly submitted to the operation, insomuch that a poetical licence might hazard the statement that they shed them like leaves of the tree, so Crummins, who had shrunk from speech, now volunteered whole sentences in succession, and how important they were deemed by his fellow-townsman, Mr. Smith, and especially Miss Annette Smith, could perceive in their ejaculations, before they themselves were drawn into the strong current of interest.

      And this was the matter: Tinman had hired the glass for three days. Latish, on the very first day of the hiring, close upon dark, he had despatched imperative orders to Phippun and Company to take the glass out of his house on the spot. And why? Because, as he maintained, there was a fault in the glass causing an incongruous and absurd reflection; and he was at that moment awaiting the arrival of another chiwal-glass.

      "Cut along, Ned," said Crickledon.

      "What the deuce does he want with a chiwal-glass at all?" cried Mr. Smith, endangering the flow of the story by suggesting to the narrator that he must "hark back," which to him was equivalent to the jumping of a chasm hindward. Happily his brain had seized a picture:

      "Mr. Tinman, he's a-standin' in his best Court suit."

      Mr. Tinmau's old schoolmate gave a jump; and no wonder.

      "Standing?" he cried; and as the act of standing was really not extraordinary, he fixed upon the suit: "Court?"

      "So Mrs. Cavely told me, it was what he was standin' in, and as I found 'm I left 'm," said Crummins.

      "He's standing in it now?" said Mr. Van Diemen Smith, with a great gape.

      Crummins doggedly repeated the statement. Many would have ornamented it in the repetition, but he was for bare flat truth.

      "He must be precious proud of having a Court suit," said Mr. Smith, and gazed at his daughter so glassily that she smiled, though she was impatient to proceed to Mrs. Crickledon's lodgings.

      "Oh! there's where it is?" interjected the carpenter, with a funny frown at a low word from Ned Crummins. "Practicing, is he? Mr.

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