Fortunately for Captain Bligh, there were but few people about, and the only person who saw him trip Police-Sergeant Pilbeam was an elderly man with a wooden leg, who joined the indignant officer in the pursuit.  The captain had youth on his side, and, diving into the narrow alley-ways that constitute the older portion of Wood-hatch, he moderated his pace and listened acutely.  The sounds of pursuit died away in the distance, and he had already dropped into a walk when the hurried tap of the wooden leg sounded from one corner and a chorus of hurried voices from the other.  It was clear that the number of hunters had increased.

He paused a second, irresolute.  The next, he pushed open a door that stood ajar in an old flint wall and peeped in.  He saw a small, brick-paved yard, in which trim myrtles and flowering plants stood about in freshly ochred pots, and, opening the door a little wider, he slipped in and closed it behind him.

“Well?” said a voice, sharply.  “What do you want?”

Captain Bligh turned, and saw a girl standing in a hostile attitude in the doorway of the house.  “H’sh!” he said, holding up his finger.

The girl’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled.

“What are you doing in our yard?” she demanded.

The captain’s face relaxed as the sound of voices died away.  He gave his moustache a twist, and eyed her with frank admiration.

“Escaping,” he said, briefly.  “They nearly had me, though.”

“You had no business to escape into our yard,” said the girl.  “What have you been escaping from?”

“Fat policeman,” said the skipper, jauntily, twisting his moustache.

Miss Pilbeam, only daughter of Sergeant Pilbeam, caught her breath sharply.

“What have you been doing?” she inquired, as soon as she could control her voice.

“Nothing,” said the skipper, airily, “nothing.  I was kicking a stone along the path and he told me to stop it.”

“Well?” said Miss Pilbeam, impatiently.

“We had words,” said the skipper.  “I don’t like policemen-fat policemen-and while we were talking he happened to lose his balance and go over into some mud that was swept up at the side of the road.”

“Lost his balance?” gasped the horrified Miss Pilbeam.

The skipper was flattered at her concern.  “You would have laughed if you had seen him,” he said, smiling.  “Don’t look so frightened; he hasn’t got me yet.”

“No,” said the girl, slowly.  “Not yet.”

She gazed at him with such a world of longing in her eyes that the skipper, despite a somewhat large share of self-esteem, was almost startled.

“And he shan’t have me,” he said, returning her gaze with interest.

Miss Pilbeam stood in silent thought.  She was a strong, well-grown girl, but she realized fully that she was no match for the villain who stood before her, twisting his moustache and adjusting his neck-tie.  And her father would not be off duty until nine.

“I suppose you would like to wait here until it is dark?” she said at last.

“I would sooner wait here than anywhere,” said the skipper, with respectful ardor.

“Perhaps you would like to come in and sit down?” said the girl.

Captain Bligh thanked her, and removing his cap followed her into a small parlor in the front of the house.

“Father is out,” she said, as she motioned him to an easy-chair, “but I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you when he comes in.”

“And I shall be pleased to see him,” said the innocent skipper.

Miss Pilbeam kept her doubts to herself and sat in a brown study, wondering how the capture was to be effected.  She had a strong presentiment that the appearance of her father at the front door would be the signal for her visitor’s departure at the back.  For a time there was an awkward silence.

“Lucky thing for me I upset that policeman,” said the skipper, at last.

“Why?” inquired the girl.

“Else I shouldn’t have come into your yard,” was the reply.  “It’s the first time we have ever put into Woodhatch, and I might have sailed away and never seen you.  Where should we have been but for that fat policeman?”

Miss Pilbeam-as soon as she could get her breath-said, “Ah, where indeed!” and for the first time in her life began to feel the need of a chaperon.

“Funny to think of him hunting for me high and low while I am sitting here,” said the skipper.

Miss Pilbeam agreed with him, and began to laugh-to laugh so heartily that he was fain at last to draw his chair close to hers and pat her somewhat anxiously on the back.  The treatment sobered her at once, and she drew apart and eyed him coldly.

“I was afraid you would lose your breath,” explained the skipper, awkwardly.  “You are not angry, are you?”

He was so genuinely relieved when she said, “No,” that Miss Pilbeam, despite her father’s wrongs, began to soften a little.  The upsetter of policemen was certainly good-looking; and his manner towards her so nicely balanced between boldness and timidity that a slight feeling of sadness at his lack of moral character began to assail her.

“Suppose you are caught after all?” she said, presently.  “You will go to prison.”

The skipper shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t suppose I shall be,” he replied.

“Aren’t you sorry?” persisted Miss Pilbeam, in a vibrant voice.

“Certainly not,” said the skipper.  “Why, I shouldn’t have seen you if I hadn’t done it.”

Miss Pilbeam looked at the clock and pondered.  It wanted but five minutes to nine.  Five minutes in which to make up a mind that was in a state of strong unrest.

“I suppose it is time for me to go,” said the skipper, watching her.  Miss Pilbeam rose.  “No, don’t go,” she said, hastily.  “Do be quiet.  I want to think.”

Captain Bligh waited in respectful silence, heedless of the fateful seconds ticking from the mantelpiece.  At the sound of a slow, measured footfall on the cobblestone path outside Miss Pilbeam caught his arm and drew him towards the door.

“Go!” she breathed.  “No, stop!”

She stood trying in vain to make up her mind.  “Upstairs,” she said.  “Quick!” and, leading the way, entered her father’s bedroom, and, after a moment’s thought, opened the door of a cupboard in the corner.

“Get in there,” she whispered.

“But-” objected the astonished Bligh.

The front door was heard to open.

“Police!” said Miss Pilbeam, in a thrilling whisper.  The skipper stepped into the cupboard without further parley, and the girl, turning the key, slipped it into her pocket and sped downstairs.

Sergeant Pilbeam was in the easy-chair, with his belt unfastened, when she entered the parlor, and, with a hungry reference to supper, sat watching her as she lit the lamp and drew down the blind.  With a lifelong knowledge of the requirements of the Force, she drew a jug of beer and placed it by his side while she set the table.

“Ah!  I wanted that,” said the sergeant.  “I’ve been running.”

Miss Pilbeam raised her eyebrows.

“After some sailor-looking chap that capsized me when I wasn’t prepared for it,” said her father, putting down his glass.  “It was a neat bit o’ work, and I shall tell him so when I catch him.  Look here!”

He stood up and exhibited the damage.

“I’ve rubbed off what I could,” he said, resuming his seat, “and I s’pose the rest’ll brush off when it’s dry.  To-morrow morning I shall go down to the harbor and try and spot my lord.”

He drew his chair to the table and helped himself, and, filling his mouth with cold meat and pickles, enlarged on his plans for the capture of his assailant; plans to which the undecided Miss Pilbeam turned a somewhat abstracted ear.

By the time her father had finished his supper she was trying, but in vain, to devise means for the prisoner’s escape.  The sergeant had opened the door of the room for the sake of fresh air, and it was impossible for anybody to come downstairs without being seen.  The story of a sickly geranium in the back-yard left him unmoved.

“I wouldn’t get up for all the geraniums in the world,” he declared.  “I’m just going to have one more pipe and then I’m off to bed.  Running don’t agree with me.”

He went, despite his daughter’s utmost efforts to prevent him, and she sat in silent consternation, listening to his heavy tread overhead.  She heard the bed creak in noisy protest as he climbed in, and ten minutes later the lusty snoring of a healthy man of full habit resounded through the house.

She went to bed herself at last, and, after lying awake for nearly a couple of hours, closed her eyes in order to think better.  She awoke with the sun pouring in at the window and the sounds of vigorous brushing in the yard beneath.

“I’ve nearly got it off,” said the sergeant, looking up.  “It’s destroying evidence in a sense, I suppose; but I can’t go about with my uniform plastered with mud.  I’ve had enough chaff about it as it is.”

Miss Pilbeam stole to the door of the next room and peeped stealthily in.  Not a sound came from the cupboard, and a horrible idea that the prisoner might have been suffocated set her trembling with apprehension.

“H’sh!” she whispered.

An eager but stifled “H’st!” came from the cup-board, and Miss Pilbeam, her fears allayed, stepped softly into the room.

“He’s downstairs brushing the mud off,” she said, in a low voice.

“Who is?” said the skipper.

“The fat policeman,” said the girl, in a hard voice, as she remembered her father’s wrongs.

“What’s he doing it here for?” demanded the astonished skipper.

“Because he lives here.”

“Lodger?” queried the skipper, more astonished than before.

“Father,” said Miss Pilbeam.

A horrified groan from the cupboard fell like music on her ears.  Then the smile forsook her lips, and she stood quivering with indignation as the groan gave way to suppressed but unmistakable laughter.

“H’sh!” she said sharply, and with head erect sailed out of the room and went downstairs to give Mr. Pilbeam his breakfast.

To the skipper in the confined space and darkness of the cupboard the breakfast seemed unending.  The sergeant evidently believed in sitting over his meals, and his deep, rumbling voice, punctuated by good-natured laughter, was plainly audible.  To pass the time the skipper fell to counting, and, tired of that, recited some verses that he had acquired at school.  After that, and with far more heartiness, he declaimed a few things that he had learned since; and still the clatter and rumble sounded from below.

It was a relief to him when he heard the sergeant push his chair back and move heavily about the room.  A minute later he heard him ascending the stairs, and then he held his breath with horror as the foot-steps entered the room and a heavy hand was laid on the cupboard door.

“Elsie!” bawled the sergeant.  “Where’s the key of my cupboard?  I want my other boots.”

“They’re down here,” cried the voice of Miss Pilbeam, and the skipper, hardly able to believe in his good fortune, heard the sergeant go downstairs again.

At the expiration of another week-by his own reckoning-he heard the light, hurried footsteps of Miss Pilbeam come up the stairs and pause at the door.

“H’st!” he said, recklessly.

“I’m coming,” said the girl.  “Don’t be impatient.”

A key turned in the lock, the door was flung open, and the skipper, dazed and blinking with the sudden light, stumbled into the room.

“Father’s gone,” said Miss Pilbeam.

The skipper made no answer.  He was administering first aid to a right leg which had temporarily forgotten how to perform its duties, varied with slaps and pinches at a left which had gone to sleep.  At intervals he turned a red-rimmed and reproachful eye on Miss Pilbeam.

“You want a wash and some breakfast,” she said, softly, “especially a wash.  There’s water and a towel, and while you’re making yourself tidy I’ll be getting breakfast.”

The skipper hobbled to the wash-stand, and, dipping his head in a basin of cool water, began to feel himself again.  By the time he had done his hair in the sergeant’s glass and twisted his moustache into shape he felt better still, and he went downstairs almost blithely.

“I’m very sorry it was your father,” he said, as he took a seat at the table.  “Very.”

“That’s why you laughed, I suppose?” said the girl, tossing her head.

“Well, I’ve had the worst of it,” said the other.  “I’d sooner be upset a hundred times than spend a night in that cupboard.  However, all’s well that ends well.”

“Ah!” said Miss Pilbeam, dolefully, “but is it the end?”

Captain Bligh put down his knife and fork and eyed her uneasily.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Never mind; don’t spoil your breakfast,” said the girl.  “I’ll tell you afterwards.  It’s horrid to think, after all my trouble, of your doing two months as well as a night in the cupboard.”

“Beastly,” said the unfortunate, eying her in great concern.  “But what’s the matter?”

“One can’t think of everything,” said Miss Pilbeam, “but, of course, we ought to have thought of the mate getting uneasy when you didn’t turn up last night, and going to the police-station with a description of you.”

The skipper started and smote the table with his fist.

“Father’s gone down to watch the ship now,” said Miss Pilbeam.  “Of course, it’s the exact description of the man that assaulted him.  Providential he called it.”

“That’s the worst of having a fool for a mate,” said the skipper, bitterly.  “What business was it of his, I should like to know?  What’s it got to do with him whether I turn up or not?  What does he want to interfere for?”

“It’s no good blaming him,” said Miss Pilbeam, thinking deeply, with her chin on her finger.  “The thing is, what is to be done?  Once father gets his hand on you -”

She shuddered; so did the skipper.

“I might get off with a fine; I didn’t hurt him,” he remarked.

Miss Pilbeam shook her head.  “They’re very strict in Woodhatch,” she said.

“I was a fool to touch him at all,” said the repentant skipper.  “High spirits, that’s what it was.  High spirits, and being spoken to as if I was a child.”

“The thing is, how are you to escape?” said the girl.  “It’s no good going out of doors with the police and half the people in Woodhatch all on the look-out for you.”

“If I could only get aboard I should be all right,” muttered the skipper.  “I could keep down the fo’-c’s’le while the mate took the ship out.”

Miss Pilbeam sat in deep thought.  “It’s the getting aboard that’s the trouble,” she said, slowly.  “You’d have to disguise yourself.  It would have to be a good disguise, too, to pass my father, I can tell you.”

Captain Bligh gave a gloomy assent.

“The only thing for you to do, so far as I can see,” said the girl, slowly, “is to make yourself up like a coalie.  There are one or two colliers in the harbor, and if you took off your coat-I could send it on afterwards-rubbed yourself all over with coal-dust, and shaved off your moustache, I believe you would escape.”

“Shave!” ejaculated the skipper, in choking accents.  “Rub !  Coal-dust!”

“It’s your only chance,” said Miss Pilbeam.

Captain Bligh leaned back frowning, and from sheer force of habit passed the ends of his moustache slowly through his fingers.  “I think the coal-dust would be enough,” he said at last.

The girl shook her head.  “Father particularly noticed your moustache,” she said.

“Everybody does,” said the skipper, with mournful pride.  “I won’t part with it.”

“Not for my sake?” inquired Miss Pilbeam, eying him mournfully.  “Not after all I’ve done for you?”

“No,” said the other, stoutly.

Miss Pilbeam put her handkerchief to her eyes and, with a suspicious little sniff, hurried from the room.  Captain Bligh, much affected, waited for a few seconds and then went in pursuit of her.  Fifteen minutes later, shorn of his moustache, he stood in the coal-hole, sulkily smearing himself with coal.

“That’s better,” said the girl; “you look horrible.”

She took up a handful of coal-dust and, ordering him to stoop, shampooed him with hearty good-will.

“No good half doing it,” she declared.  “Now go and look at yourself in the glass in the kitchen.”

The skipper went, and came back in a state of wild-eyed misery.  Even Miss Pilbeam’s statement that his own mother would not know him failed to lift the cloud from his brow.  He stood disconsolate as the girl opened the front door.

“Good-by,” she said, gently.  “Write and tell me when you are safe.”

Captain Bligh promised, and walked slowly up the road.  So far from people attempting to arrest him, they vied with each other in giving him elbow-room.  He reached the harbor unmolested, and, lurking at a convenient corner, made a careful survey.  A couple of craft were working out their coal, a small steamer was just casting loose, and a fishing-boat gliding slowly over the still water to its berth.  His own schooner, which lay near the colliers, had apparently knocked off work pending his arrival.  For Sergeant Pilbeam he looked in vain.

He waited a minute or two, and then, with a furtive glance right and left, strolled in a careless fashion until he was abreast of one of the colliers.  Nobody took any notice of him, and, with his hands in his pockets, he gazed meditatively into the water and edged along towards his own craft.  His foot trembled as he placed it on the plank that formed the gangway, but, resisting the temptation to look behind, he gained the deck and walked forward.

“Halloa!  What do you want?” inquired a sea-man, coming out of the galley.

“All right, Bill,” said the skipper, in a low voice.  “Don’t take any notice of me.”

“Eh?” said the seaman, starting.  “Good lor’!  What ha’ you -”

“Shut up!” said the skipper, fiercely; and, walking to the forecastle, placed his hand on the scuttle and descended with studied slowness.  As he reached the floor the perturbed face of Bill blocked the opening.

“Had an accident, cap’n?” he inquired, respectfully.

“No,” snapped the skipper.  “Come down here-quick!  Don’t stand up there attracting attention.  Do you want the whole town round you?  Come down!”

“I’m all right where I am,” said Bill, backing hastily as the skipper, putting a foot on the ladder, thrust a black and furious face close to his.

“Clear out, then,” hissed the skipper.  “Go and send the mate to me.  Don’t hurry.  And if anybody noticed me come aboard and should ask you who I am, say I’m a pal of yours.”

The seaman, marvelling greatly, withdrew, and the skipper, throwing himself on a locker, wiped a bit of grit out of his eye and sat down to wait for the mate.  He was so long in coming that he waxed impatient, and ascending a step of the ladder again peeped on to the deck.  The first object that met his gaze was the figure of the mate leaning against the side of the ship with a wary eye on the scuttle.

“Come here,” said the skipper.

“Anything wrong?” inquired the mate, retreating a couple of paces in disorder.

“Come-here!” repeated the skipper.

The mate advanced slowly, and in response to an imperative command from the skipper slowly descended and stood regarding him nervously.

“Yes; you may look,” said the skipper, with sudden ferocity.  “This is all your doing.  Where are you going?”

He caught the mate by the coat as he was making for the ladder, and hauled him back again.

“You’ll go when I’ve finished with you,” he said, grimly.  “Now, what do you mean by it?  Eh?  What do you mean by it?”

“That’s all right,” said the mate, in a soothing voice.  “Don’t get excited.”

“Look at me!” said the skipper.  “All through your interfering.  How dare you go making inquiries about me?”

“Me?” said the mate, backing as far as possible.  “Inquiries?”

“What’s it got to do with you if I stay out all night?” pursued the skipper.

“Nothing,” said the other, feebly.

“What did you go to the police about me for, then?” demanded the skipper.

“Me?” said the mate, in the shrill accents of astonishment.  “Me?  I didn’t go to no police about you.  Why should I?”

“Do you mean to say you didn’t report my absence last night to the police?” said the skipper, sternly.

“Cert’nly not,” said the mate, plucking up courage.  “Why should I?  If you like to take a night off it’s nothing to do with me.  I ’ope I know my duty better.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And the police haven’t been watching the ship and inquiring for me?” asked the skipper.

The mate shook his bewildered head.  “Why should they?” he inquired.

The skipper made no reply.  He sat goggle-eyed, staring straight before him, trying in vain to realize the hardness of the heart that had been responsible for such a scurvy trick.

“Besides, it ain’t the fust time you’ve been out all night,” remarked the mate, aggressively.

The skipper favored him with a glance the dignity of which was somewhat impaired by his complexion, and in a slow and stately fashion ascended to the deck.  Then he caught his breath sharply and paled beneath the coaldust as he saw Sergeant Pilbeam standing on the quay, opposite the ship.  By his side stood Miss Pilbeam, and both, with a far-away look in their eyes, were smiling vaguely but contentedly at the horizon.  The sergeant appeared to be the first to see the skipper.

“Ahoy, Darkie!” he cried.

Captain Bligh, who was creeping slowly aft, halted, and, clenching his fists, regarded him ferociously.

“Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant, holding up the jacket Bligh had left behind.  “Good-looking young man with a very fine moustache he is.”

“Was,” said his daughter, in a mournful voice.

“And a rather dark complexion,” continued the sergeant, grinning madly.  “I was going to take him-for stealing my coal-but I thought better of it.  Thought of a better way.  At least, my daughter did.  So long; Darkie.”

He kissed the top of a fat middle finger, and, turning away, walked off with Miss Pilbeam.  The skipper stood watching them with his head swimming until, arrived at the corner, they stopped and the sergeant came slowly back.

“I was nearly forgetting,” he said, slowly.  “Tell your skipper that if so be as he wants to apologize-for stealing my coal-I shall be at home at tea at five o’clock.”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of Miss Pilbeam and winked with slow deliberation.  “She’ll be there, too,” he added.  “Savvy?”

“Matrimonial openings”

Mr. Dowson sat by the kitchen fire smoking and turning a docile and well-trained ear to the heated words which fell from his wife’s lips.

“She’ll go and do the same as her sister Jenny done,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a side glance at her daughter Flora; “marry a man and then ’ave to work and slave herself to skin and bone to keep him.”

“I see Jenny yesterday,” said her husband, nodding.  “Getting quite fat, she is.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Dowson, violently, “that’s right!  The moment I say something you go and try and upset it.”

“Un’ealthy fat, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Dowson, hurriedly; “don’t get enough exercise, I s’pose.”

“Anybody who didn’t know you, Joe Dowson,” said his wife, fiercely, “would think you was doing it a purpose.”

“Doing wot?” inquired Mr. Dowson, removing his pipe and regarding her open-mouthed.  “I only said -”

“I know what you said,” retorted his wife.  “Here I do my best from morning to night to make everybody ’appy and comfortable; and what happens?”

“Nothing,” said the sympathetic Mr. Dowson, shaking his head.  “Nothing.”

“Anyway, Jenny ain’t married a fool,” said Mrs. Dowson, hotly; “she’s got that consolation.”

“That’s right, mother,” said the innocent Mr. Dowson, “look on the bright side o’ things a bit.  If Jenny ’ad married a better chap I don’t suppose we should see half as much of her as wot we do.”

“I’m talking of Flora,” said his wife, restraining herself by an effort.  “One unfortunate marriage in the family is enough; and here, instead o’ walking out with young Ben Lippet, who’ll be ’is own master when his father dies, she’s gadding about with that good-for-nothing Charlie Foss.”

Mr. Dowson shook his head.  “He’s so good-looking, is Charlie,” he said, slowly; “that’s the worst of it.  Wot with ’is dark eyes and his curly ’air -”

“Go on!” said his wife, passionately, “go on!”

Mr. Dowson, dimly conscious that something was wrong, stopped and puffed hard at his pipe.  Through the cover of the smoke he bestowed a sympathetic wink upon his daughter.

“You needn’t go on too fast,” said the latter, turning to her mother.  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.  Charlie’s looks are all right, but he ain’t over and above steady, and Ben is steady, but he ain’t much to look at.”

“What does your ’art say?” inquired the sentimental Mr. Dowson.

Neither lady took the slightest notice.

“Charlie Foss is too larky,” said Mrs. Dowson, solemnly; “it’s easy come and easy go with ’im.  He’s just such another as your father’s cousin Bill-and look what ’appened to him!”

Miss Dowson shrugged her shoulders and subsiding in her chair, went on with her book, until a loud knock at the door and a cheerful, but peculiarly shrill, whistle sounded outside.

“There is my lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Dowson, waspishly; “anybody might think the ’ouse belonged to him.  And now he’s dancing on my clean doorstep.”

“Might be only knocking the mud off afore coming in,” said Mr. Dowson, as he rose to open the door.  “I’ve noticed he’s very careful.”

“I just came in to tell you a joke,” said Mr. Foss, as he followed his host into the kitchen and gazed tenderly at Miss Dowson-“best joke I ever had in my life; I’ve ’ad my fortune told-guess what it was!  I’ve been laughing to myself ever since.”

“Who told it?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, after a somewhat awkward silence.

“Old gypsy woman in Peter Street,” replied Mr. Foss.  “I gave ’er a wrong name and address, just in case she might ha’ heard about me, and she did make a mess of it; upon my word she did.”

“Wot did she say?” inquired Mr. Dowson.

Mr. Foss laughed.  “Said I was a wrong ’un,” he said, cheerfully, “and would bring my mother’s gray hairs to the grave with sorrow.  I’m to ’ave bad companions and take to drink; I’m to steal money to gamble with, and after all that I’m to ’ave five years for bigamy.  I told her I was disappointed I wasn’t to be hung, and she said it would be a disappointment to a lot of other people too.  Laugh!  I thought I should ’ave killed myself.”

“I don’t see nothing to laugh at,” said Mrs. Dowson, coldly.

“I shouldn’t tell anybody else, Charlie,” said her husband.  “Keep it a secret, my boy.”

“But you-you don’t believe it?” stammered the crestfallen Mr. Foss.

Mrs. Dowson cast a stealthy glance at her daughter.  “Its wonderful ’ow some o’ those fortune-tellers can see into the future,” she said, shaking her head.

“Ah!” said her husband, with a confirmatory nod.  “Wonderful is no name for it.  I ’ad my fortune told once when I was a boy, and she told me I should marry the prettiest, and the nicest, and the sweetest-tempered gal in Poplar.”

Mr. Foss, with a triumphant smile, barely waited for him to finish.  “There you-” he began, and stopped suddenly.

“What was you about to remark?” inquired Mrs. Dowson, icily.

“I was going to say,” replied Mr. Foss-“I was going to say-I ’ad just got it on the tip o’ my tongue to say, ’There you-you-you ’ad all the luck, Mr. Dowson.’”

He edged his chair a little nearer to Flora; but there was a chilliness in the atmosphere against which his high spirits strove in vain.  Mr. Dowson remembered other predictions which had come true, notably the case of one man who, learning that he was to come in for a legacy, gave up a two-pound-a-week job, and did actually come in for twenty pounds and a bird-cage seven years afterwards.

“It’s all nonsense,” protested Mr. Foss; “she only said all that because I made fun of her.  You don’t believe it, do you, Flora?”

“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” returned Miss Dowson.  “Fancy five years for bigamy!  Fancy the disgrace of it!”

“But you’re talking as if I was going to do it,” objected Mr. Foss.  “I wish you’d go and ’ave your fortune told.  Go and see what she says about you.  P’r’aps you won’t believe so much in fortune-telling afterwards.”

Mrs. Dowson looked up quickly, and then, lowering her eyes, took her hand out of the stocking she had been darning and, placing it beside its companion, rolled the pair into a ball.

“You go round to-morrow night, Flora,” she said, deliberately.  “It sha’n’t be said a daughter of mine was afraid to hear the truth about herself; father’ll find the money.”

“And she can say what she likes about you, but I sha’n’t believe it,” said Mr. Foss, reproachfully.

“I don’t suppose it’ll be anything to be ashamed of,” said Miss Dowson, sharply.

Mr. Foss bade them good-night suddenly, and, finding himself accompanied to the door by Mr. Dowson, gave way to gloom.  He stood for so long with one foot on the step and the other on the mat that Mr. Dowson, who disliked draughts, got impatient.

“You’ll catch cold, Charlie,” he said at last.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” said Mr. Foss; “my death o’ cold.  Then I sha’n’t get five years for bigamy,” he added bitterly.

“Cheer up,” said Mr. Dowson; “five years ain’t much out of a lifetime; and you can’t expect to ’ave your fun without-”

He watched the retreating figure of Mr. Foss as it stamped its way down the street, and closing the door returned to the kitchen to discuss palmistry and other sciences until bedtime.

Mrs. Dowson saw husband and daughter off to work in the morning, and after washing up the breakfast things drew her chair up to the kitchen fire and became absorbed in memories of the past.  All the leading incidents in Flora’s career passed in review before her.  Measles, whooping-cough, school-prizes, and other things peculiar to the age of innocence were all there.  In her enthusiasm she nearly gave her a sprained ankle which had belonged to her sister.  Still shaking her head over her mistake, she drew Flora’s latest portrait carefully from its place in the album, and putting on her hat and jacket went round to make a call in Peter Street.

By the time Flora returned home Mrs. Dowson appeared to have forgotten the arrangement made the night before, and, being reminded by her daughter, questioned whether any good could come of attempts to peer into the future.  Mr. Dowson was still more emphatic, but his objections, being recognized by both ladies as trouser-pocket ones, carried no weight.  It ended in Flora going off with half a crown in her glove and an urgent request from her father to make it as difficult as possible for the sibyl by giving a false name and address.

No name was asked for, however, as Miss Dowson was shown into the untidy little back room on the first floor, in which the sorceress ate, slept, and received visitors.  She rose from an old rocking-chair as the visitor entered, and, regarding her with a pair of beady black eyes, bade her sit down.

“Are you the fortune-teller?” inquired the girl.

“Men call me so,” was the reply.

“Yes, but are you?” persisted Miss Dowson, who inherited her father’s fondness for half crowns.

“Yes,” said the other, in a more natural voice.

She took the girl’s left hand, and pouring a little dark liquid into the palm gazed at it intently.  “Left for the past; right for the future,” she said, in a deep voice.

She muttered some strange words and bent her head lower over the girl’s hand.

“I see a fair-haired infant,” she said, slowly; “I see a little girl of four racked with the whooping-cough; I see her later, eight she appears to be.  She is in bed with measles.”

Miss Dowson stared at her open-mouthed.

“She goes away to the seaside to get strong,” continued the sorceress; “she is paddling; she falls into the water and spoils her frock; her mother -”

“Never mind about that,” interrupted the staring Miss Dowson, hastily.  “I was only eight at the time and mother always was ready with her hands.”

“People on the beach smile,” resumed the other.  “They

“It don’t take much to make some people laugh,” said Miss Dowson, with bitterness.

“At fourteen she and a boy next door but seven both have the mumps.”

“And why not?” demanded Miss Dowson with great warmth.  “Why not?”

“I’m only reading what I see in your hand,” said the other.  “At fifteen I see her knocked down by a boat-swing; a boy from opposite brings her home.”

“Passing at the time,” murmured Miss Dowson.

“His head is done up with sticking-plaster.  I see her apprenticed to a dressmaker.  I see her -”

The voice went on monotonously, and Flora, gasping with astonishment, listened to a long recital of the remaining interesting points in her career.

“That brings us to the present,” said the soothsayer, dropping her hand.  “Now for the future.”

She took the girl’s other hand and poured some of the liquid into it.  Miss Dowson shrank back.

“If it’s anything dreadful,” she said, quickly, “I don’t want to hear it.  It-it ain’t natural.”

“I can warn you of dangers to keep clear of,” said the other, detaining her hand.  “I can let you peep into the future and see what to do and what to avoid.  Ah!”

She bent over the girl’s hand again and uttered little ejaculations of surprise and perplexity.

“I see you moving in gay scenes surrounded by happy faces,” she said, slowly.  “You are much sought after.  Handsome presents and fine clothes are showered upon you.  You will cross the sea.  I see a dark young man and a fair young man.  They will both influence your life.  The fair young man works in his father’s shop.  He will have great riches.”

“What about the other?” inquired Miss Dowson, after a somewhat lengthy pause.

The fortune-teller shook her head.  “He is his own worst enemy,” she said, “and he will drag down those he loves with him.  You are going to marry one of them, but I can’t see clear-I can’t see which.”

“Look again,” said the trembling Flora.

“I can’t see,” was the reply, “therefore it isn’t meant for me to see.  It’s for you to choose.  I can see them now as plain as I can see you.  You are all three standing where two roads meet.  The fair young man is beckoning to you and pointing to a big house and a motor-car and a yacht.”

“And the other?” said the surprised Miss Dowson.

“He’s in knickerbockers,” said the other, doubtfully.  “What does that mean?  Ah, I see!  They’ve got the broad arrow on them, and he is pointing to a jail.  It’s all gone-I can see no more.”

She dropped the girl’s hand and, drawing her hand across her eyes, sank back into her chair.  Miss Dowson, with trembling fingers, dropped the half crown into her lap, and, with her head in a whirl, made her way downstairs.

After such marvels the streets seemed oddly commonplace as she walked swiftly home.  She decided as she went to keep her knowledge to herself, but inclination on the one hand and Mrs. Dowson on the other got the better of her resolution.  With the exception of a few things in her past, already known and therefore not worth dwelling upon, the whole of the interview was disclosed.

“It fair takes your breath away,” declared the astounded Mr. Dowson.

“The fair young man is meant for Ben Lippet,” said his wife, “and the dark one is Charlie Foss.  It must be.  It’s no use shutting your eyes to things.”

“It’s as plain as a pikestaff,” agreed her husband.  “And she told Charlie five years for bigamy, and when she’s telling Flora’s Fortune she sees ’im in convict’s clothes.  How she does it I can’t think.”

“It’s a gift,” said Mrs. Dowson, briefly, “and I do hope that Flora is going to act sensible.  Anyhow, she can let Ben Lippet come and see her, without going upstairs with the tooth-ache.”

“He can come if he likes,” said Flora; “though why Charlie couldn’t have ’ad the motor-car and ’im the five years, I don’t know.”

Mr. Lippet came in the next evening, and the evening after.  In fact, so easy is it to fall into habits of an agreeable nature that nearly every evening saw him the happy guest of Mr. Dowson.  A spirit of resignation, fostered by a present or two and a visit to the theatre, descended upon Miss Dowson.  Fate and her mother combined were in a fair way to overcome her inclinations, when Mr. Foss, who had been out of town on a job, came in to hear the result of her visit to the fortune-teller, and found Mr. Lippet installed in the seat that used to be his.

At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information, and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you asked for it, and now you’ve got it.”

“It’s very amusing,” said Mr. Foss.  “I wonder who the dark young man in the fancy knickers is?”

“Ah, I daresay you’ll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.

“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive Mr. Foss.

Mrs. Dowson hesitated.  “Yes,” she said, defiantly.

“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.

“You’ll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.

“I’m glad it’s to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling.  She’s too sensible.”

“I do,” said Flora.  “How should she know all the things I did when I was a little girl?  Tell me that.”

“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson.  “P’r’aps you’ll tell me I’m not sensible!”

Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence.  The talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet’s, rumored to possess money, and an uncle who was “rolling” in it.  He began to feel in the way, and only his native obstinacy prevented him from going.

It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage.  If anything it seemed heavier than usual, and Mr. Dowson’s manner when he entered the room and greeted his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness.  He drew a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily between the bars.

“I’ve been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this ’ere fortune-telling as we’ve been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”

“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.

“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie and Flora went to.”

“Of course it does,” snapped his wife.  “I’d trust what she says afore anything.”

“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up courage; “and they all believe ’er.  They couldn’t help themselves; they said so.”

“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly.  “Might get mixed up, so to speak.”

“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.

“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.

Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room.  It lighted on Mr. Foss.

“She’s an old humbug,” said that gentleman.  “I’ve a good mind to put the police on to her.”

Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand.  Then he sighed again.

“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson; “naturally he’d say so; he’s got reasons.  I believe every word she says.  If she told me I was coming in for a fortune I should believe her; and if she told me I was going to have misfortunes I should believe her.”

“Don’t say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy.  “Don’t say that.  That’s what she did say!”

“What?” cried his wife, sharply.  “What are you talking about?”

“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at the table.  “Eighteenpence is ’er price for telling the future only, and, being curious and feeling I’d like to know what’s going to ’appen to me, I went in and had eighteenpennorth.”

“Well, you’re upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him.  “You get upstairs to bed.”

“I’d sooner stay ’ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems more cheerful and lifelike.  I wish I ’adn’t gorn, that’s what I wish.”

“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.

Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke desperately.  “She says I’m to live to ninety, and I’m to travel to foreign parts -”

“You get to bed,” said his wife.  “Come along.”

Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly.  “I’m to be rich,” he continued, slowly-“rich and loved.  After my pore dear wife’s death I’m to marry again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”

Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with passion.  “How dare you?” she gasped.  “You-you’ve been drinking.”

“I’ve ’ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly.  “I shouldn’t ’ave ’ad the second only I felt so miserable.  I know I sha’n’t be ’appy with a young woman.”

Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.

“I shouldn’t worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss, kindly.  “Look what she said about me.  That ought to show you she ain’t to be relied on.”

“Eyes like lamps,” said Mr. Dowson, musingly, “and I’m forty-nine next month.  Well, they do say every eye ’as its own idea of beauty.”

A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the over-wrought Mrs. Dowson.  She controlled herself by an effort.

“If she said it,” she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss, “it’ll come true.  If, after my death, my ’usband is going to marry a young woman with-with -”

“Stormy brown eyes,” interjected Mr. Foss, softly.

“It’s his fate and it can’t be avoided,” concluded Mrs. Dowson.

“But it’s so soon,” said the unfortunate husband.  “You’re to die in three weeks and I’m to be married three months after.”

Mrs. Dowson moistened her lips and tried, but in vain, to avoid the glittering eye of Mr. Foss.  “Three!” she said, mechanically, “three! three weeks!”

“Don’t be frightened,” said Mr. Foss, in a winning voice.  “I don’t believe it; and, besides, we shall soon see!  And if you don’t die in three weeks, perhaps I sha’n’t get five years for bigamy, and perhaps Flora won’t marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.”

“No; perhaps she is wrong after all, mother,” said Mr. Dowson, hopefully.

Mrs. Dowson gave him a singularly unkind look for one about to leave him so soon, and, afraid to trust herself to speech, left the room and went up-stairs.  As the door closed behind her, Mr. Foss took the chair which Mr. Lippet had thoughtlessly vacated, and offered such consolations to Flora as he considered suitable to the occasion.