Will Bryan in His Castle

I rang the Old Bailey bell vigorously, as I have said. I felt agitated and sad, and the unexpected appearances of Will Bryan and old Nic’las did not lessen, in the slightest, the multitude of my thoughts. Promptly, in response to the summons. I heard someone walk up at a brisk pace, the jingle of his keys denoting his important, though unenviable, office. A minute later the door was opened, and the light of a lamp, carried by the opener, blazed across my face, almost blinding me.

“Who was I?” “What did I want?”

“Was the governor in?”

“He was.”

“Could I see him?”

“I could, if my business was important.”

“O, certainly.”

“Good. Come in!”

I was led into a small, square room, in which there were but a table and two chairs, and there left by my guide, who pulled-to the self- locking door behind him. I waited, in fear and trembling, the call to the governor’s presence; although it was with that very object I had come all the way. Mr. Prichard, the keeper of Flint prison, was the only gaoler I had ever seen, and I remembered that he had a look before which even the innocent trembled in their shoes. The fuming authority his face showed! How his sharp, wild eye pierced one through, scraping up his very back bone! I never heard of anybody committed to Flint gaol whom Mr. Prichard’s look did not terrify, old Ned James excepted. When Ned was sent up for the second time, Mr. Prichard shouted in his ear, “Well, Ned! Ned!! Ned!!! Have you come here again, then?” “I never was in a place in my life which I couldn’t go to afterwards,” replied Ned, with perfect self-possession. If Mr. Prichard, the keeper of Flint prison, thought I, carried such terror in his looks, how much more so the keeper of the Old Bailey? The door opened, and, with trembling limbs, I was ushered into the presence of Mr. Breece. But the trembling was needless. Mr. Breece did not resemble Mr. Prichard in the slightest. He was a little, delicate, harmless looking man. Mrs. Breece was in the room at the time, knitting. She was a large, stout lady, of pleasing appearance, to whom her lord seemed to be a sort of appendage. On my entrance the gaoler rose, gave me a look of welcome over his gold spectacle-rim, and bade me take a chair.

“Mr. Lewis, I understand?” said he.

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘I hope you’ll pardon me for disturbing you at this hour.”

“Don’t mention it! Don’t mention it!” he rejoined. “When there’s business on hand, I never look at the time.”

After some general conversation, in the course of which I noticed he had a habit of repeating his words, Mr. Breece remarked, “Excuse me, Mr. Lewis, but are you in the ministry?”

“I am sir,” said I,

“I guessed as much,” quoth he; “so you’ll take a glass of wine with me. Mother! if you please, hand us the——”

“Don’t trouble,” I interposed. “I do not take any. My errand is short and simple, and I will not intrude upon you for more than a couple of minutes. This morning I received a letter from you informing me of the death of a man named James Lewis, a prisoner in this place. My visit is to be attributed more to curiosity than to anything else.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mr. Breece, whose face changed on the instant. Casting a keen and searching glance at me, he added, “Yes, yes, I wrote you and thought no more of the matter —more—of—the—matter. He was your father, it seems, eh?”

“No;” replied I, feeling glad at being able to say so. “But he was some sort of a relative, of whom, I can assure you, I was not by any means proud. My business is to know, if you will be good enough to tell me, whether he said anything to you beyond what was contained in your letter. I have my reasons for asking this which it would be of no use or interest that you should be made acquainted with.”

“I understand you, I understand you,” returned Mr. Breece, resuming his former affability. “No; no, to the best of my recollection, he told me no more than I wrote you. Have you many relations, Mr. Lewis?”

“As far as I am aware, he was the last,” I answered.

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Breece, in surprise.

“Of course, you buried him to-day, as stated in your letter,” I observed.

“No,” he replied. “No. Wait; did you say, Mr. Lewis, that he was the only relative you possessed?”

“On my oath,” I replied, for I saw that he doubted me. “As far as I am aware, he was the last of my family.”

“That is strange,” said Mr. Breece; “if, indeed, it is strange too; for we are constantly being deceived—constantly. I suppose I must take your word, as a clergyman; but, this morning, just as I had given orders to place the body in the coffin, there came a visitor here who represented himself to be a brother of the deceased; [I felt uncomfortable at the words] although I must admit he was not a bit like him; indeed, he seemed a strange character, and was obviously a man of means. He begged to be allowed to provide a suitable coffin for his unfortunate brother, and put down a five pound note on the table in payment—on the table, sir. Could I refuse him, you think? Sir, I always say that, when death sets to work, the law must give way—give way, sir. Will I punish a dead man? Never sir; never! That would look like fighting against Almighty God, sir. I at once ordered a good coffin to be made for the dead; and it is a good coffin. Indeed, in a manner of speaking, it is a pity to put anything so expensive in the earth. He who paid for it loved his brother dearly. If you had only been here ten minutes earlier you would have seen that strange man—a character, sir, quite a character.”

I rose to go, saying “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Breece for your kindness, and I again apologise for troubling you at such a time of night.”

“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” returned the Governor. ‘Things of this sort will happen, sometimes. Here you are! Would you like to see the coffin? I’m sure you’ll be pleased with it.”

If you’ll be good enough, sir,” I replied.

Mr. Breece touched a bell at his elbow, and in a minute the man whom I had previously seen made his appearance.

“Gloom,” said Mr. Breece, “has coffin No. 72 been screwed down?”:

“That is what we are just doing, sir,” was the answer.

“Take this gentleman to see it. Good night. Don’t mention it, sir; don’t mention it. You’re very welcome.”

I was led across a wide court-yard, then through a door-way opening on to a long corridor, through another door and another, both self-locking; -then down a flight of stone steps, and along another corridor, there being something in the atmosphere, the strong doors and damp walls which made me think that all in that place had been dead for generations—my guide, Mr. Breece and his wife excepted—so dark and dismal were the surroundings. At length we came to the mortuary chamber where, so I then supposed, never a whiff of fresh air had entered, and where the living were compelled to be as the dead—without breathing. The ceiling of the room was low, the walls were bare and dank as if snail-beslimed for centuries, and the odour of death hung thick all about. When I first went in, I thought it was the subterranean character of the place which made me fancy rats were gnawing at my boots and crawling between my legs until my guide, with a curse, made a kick at one. I was then certain it was no fancy, but that he, too, was being pestered by the same vermin. I had had but little to eat that day, and felt weak and faint. But I tried to bear up, for I had not come all that way for nothing. At the farthest end of the long and narrow room was a board whereon lay the “nice coffin,” beside which stood a man in his shirt sleeves, with a paper cap on his head, who on hearing me and my guide approach turned to look at us, holding a screwdriver poised in his hand, his face wearing an expression like that of a man caught robbing a grave. He took the trouble to explain to me the excellent points of the coffin! What cared I about that? My great object was to see the body which was within. I had to give the joiner a shilling to unscrew. However mad the notion, I feared my uncle James had only simulated death, and that this was but a deep-laid plan of his to escape from prison. To tell the truth, I seriously expected, while the joiner was taking out the last screw and removing the lid, to see my uncle sitting up and laughing. But it did not happen so; and, blame me who will, I felt greatly relieved. There he lay, in the same old clothes, and as dead as a doornail. He, who had ruined my father, brought my mother and myself the greater part of our troubles, spent every farthing of the money I had saved to go to college, and who found no evil too great to commit, was now powerless and still, vanquished at last by the Great Vanquisher! So as to make sure, I felt his hands and his forehead. They were cold as the encompassing walls. Previous to that night I had seen but two dead faces—Seth’s and my mother’s. ‘The change there was here! I The Devil had set his mark on this one, to whom the pangs of death had been horrible. Methought the difference between the pleasant, cheerful look upon the face of Seth in his coffin, and that upon the one before me was as wide as heaven is from hell asunder! He was my uncle, brother to my father; but I fear that but few worse men were ever placed between four boards. Looking at him, I felt a certain degree of awe; and yet, I thought, everything about contributed to make a fit end for a character so degraded and sinful. Although my clothes were sticking to me with a cold perspiration, I felt a sort of chuckle at the knowledge that he would torment me no more. Whatever might be the other troubles in store, one half of my nightmare had been lifted from off me. I hurried away from the scene. On finding myself without the walls of the Old Bailey, I took a long, deep breath and, as if unconsciously, murmured, “O blessed liberty!”

In that part of the town the streets were quiet and still, and I saw no living creature during the whole of the time I was walking back and fore, like a soldier doing sentry duty, waiting Will Bryan. I walked and walked, my mind running upon Bala, where I longed to be. Little did Williams, whom I fancied snug in bed, know where I was at that moment, or the thoughts that were hovering around my heart. Had he known, he would not have slept a wink. It had ceased raining now for some time, and the moon shone forth. I was glad to see her. I knew her, and believed she knew me, ever since I was a child, and when I used to think we, Welsh people, owned her. Will was such a long while in coming that, at times, I feared something had happened to him, and that he would never come at all. Occasionally I felt ready to faint with hunger; but I would speedily forget all that, and my musings would traverse a considerable portion of my life. Looking back I saw God’s hand bringing me safe through many a distress. What purpose had He in leading me hither? My thoughts were tangled, but was the dawn about to break? Will was a long time coming; but I remembered mother used to say that every wait was a long one. I fancied, in the distance, hearing the rumble of approaching wheels, and set to listening intently. Were they Will’s? No, for they went another way. A church clock near by struck twelve. Presently I fancied hearing footsteps on the pavement beyond, and bent my ear to catch the sound. Yes, some one was approaching. He walked swiftly along, and whistled as he went. To prevent suspicion I walked to meet him, intending to return after he had passed. When within forty yards or so of him the man broke out into song—part of a duet entitled, if I remember rightly, “All’s Well,” in which the questions and answers occur: “Who goes there?” “A friend.” “The word?” “Good Night,” &c. The singer was Will, whose well-known voice brought my spirit healing.

“Well, old soot-in-the-soup, are you tired of waiting?” he asked. “You must excuse me for not coming by cab; the nag was dead tired, and we haven’t far to walk to my crib. Now let us have a little of your ‘stranger than fiction.’ I know by your jib you’re in a row. Where in the wide world have you come from? D’ye know what? I have been thinking about you thousands of times and asking what if Providence were to tumble us across each other, some day? But, weary pilgrim, tell thy tale!”

“First of all, Will,” said I, “did you find out where old Nic’las went to?”

“Yes, and got a tanner for doing so,” replied Will. ‘It was only after leaving you it struck me how difficult it would be to dog a chap in a cab, so I drove up straight to my nabs, and said, ‘step in, sir;’ as if I meant to give him a lift for nothing, you know. The old boy rose to the bait. ‘Sixty-five Gregg Street,” said he, and when I put him down, ha gave me sixpence. We shan’t be two minutes passing the house. I’ll show it you. But what’s the row? What’s the meaning of all this? Spout!”

It was no uneasy or roundabout task to explain to Will my object in coming to B, he knowing more of my and my family’s history than anybody else. I gave him a brief account of what had happened to me after he made his “exit,” to all of which he listened with deep interest. I knew I could reckon upon his confidence and help. Indeed, but for so Providential a meeting, the one-half of my errand to the town would have been left unfulfilled. We walked, arm in arm, without my looking where we were going to, although I was conscious of being led through various streets, and of having turned to the right and the left many times. I had just finished relating what I had seen in the Old Bailey, when Will pulled up and said softly, “Here it is.” I looked about me, and saw we were in a narrow, quiet street. The houses were high and, judging from the number of windows, contained a great many occupants. There were shutters upon the lower windows. Will whispered me again: “Here’s the house—65, Gregg Street. It was to this old Nick went. We had better ask if suppers ready? A strange feeling came over me, which I cannot describe. It was made up of fear, odd thoughts and curiosity. The residents appeared to have retired to rest; but Will directed my attention, with his finger, to a streak of light above the shutters of No. 65, and walked as stealthily as a cat towards the window, I following. We heard talking inside. Will placing his right hand on my shoulder and his left foot on the low window-sill, stretched himself to his full height, and tried to peep above the edge of the shutters. Failing to do so, he descended, and invited me, I being about an inch the taller, to have a try. I went up, and was able to survey the room. But my heart beat so fast that I almost lost the use of my eyes. However, I managed to make out that there was a bed at the farther end, with someone sitting upon it but I could not see his face, because Nic’las, whose form I well knew, was standing between me and him, pouring from a bottle, which he held in his right hand, something into a glass, which he held in his left. I was getting anxious for a view of the face of the man on the bed, when my attention was attracted by a sharp click at my side, like the creak of a key in a lock. I looked, and behold a tall, powerful policeman handing me neatly down from the window-sill. Before I knew that my feet had touched the ground, my wrist was in one loop of a pair of handcutis, of which the other was about Will’s. It took the officer about half a dozen seconds to do the business, which he went through without saying a word. Keeping hold of my coat collar, he made a careful search for the number of the house. I was on the point of dropping from fright. Will quickly regained his self-possession, and was the first to break silence.

“Officer,” he said, “I must give you credit. You are a smart fellow.” Looking thoughtfully, alternately at the handcuffs and myself, he added: “Just as it should be. We’ve always been attached, even from childhood;” whereupon he began to argue with the officer, who, however, refused to have anything to say to him, the only word we could get out of our captor being the single one, “March!” which we did. The officer walked close at our heels without saying anything, save “right” or “left,” when we came to the corner of a street.

“This is the worst day’s work I’ve ever seen with my eyes, I’ll take oath,” observed Will. “We’ve made a regular hash of things, and there is no use, you know, arguing with a Bluecoat. I must speak a little grammatically, or he’ll understand us. The question is, how shall we get out of this? Set your mind to work on some good scheme now. Why do you tremble so? An innocent man has no cause to tremble. You know us to be as harmless as William the Coal’s mule. By the bye, is old William alive? Does he still keep laying the blame on Satan? We, too, I fear, must lay the blame on the old fellow for this job. How shall we manage it, say? Bluecoat, you know, will swear lots of things, to-morrow morning. Speak, for you may just as well not be down hearted.”

“There is nothing to be done except to tell the truth and take the consequences,” said I. “But, let me get free from the clutches of this man when I may, I must go back to that house again.”

“They’ll never believe the truth,” remarked Will. “Were we to tell the truth, namely, that we only wanted to see who was with old Nic’las in the house there, d’ye think they’d believe us? Not likely! There are many ways of telling the truth. It is necessary to speak figuratively sometimes, you know. If Bluecoat doesn’t put in a lot of lies, I don’t see how they can do anything to us. But we may possibly get fourteen days; which will be a lasting shame in the case of a couple of innocent lads. I never knew anything so awkward. After I had thought of having a pleasant night, going over old times! If I was sure Blue coat wasn’t an exception, I’d try and bribe him; but there’s no knowing, he’s so quiet. If we had pretended to be drunk it would only be five shillings and the costs. Have you no plan? Say something; you needn’t give up the ghost. I try not to use an English word lest Bluecoat should understand me. I never remember talking such pure Welsh —I am surprised at myself. Let’s have an understanding as to what we shall say, for fear we’ll make a mess of our story. How would it be for us to say we were after the servants? There are sure to be servants in a house like that. What if they asked us their names, and we were to answer—Ann and Margaret? Then, supposing we were asked the kind of hair they have, and we said black? But what if their names turned out to be Maud and Cecilia, and their hair red? How should we look then? No, that story won’t wash. Tell us your scheme? D’ye know what? I never thought you had so little pluck. You needn’t go into your boots, man—you won’t be a bit the better. At the same time, I’m terribly sorry for you. I don’t care a fig about myself, because some chum or other of mine is sure to look after the nag. But the idea of a Methodist preacher in quod! D’ye know what? I nearly dropped into poetry; only “nag” and “quod” don’t rhyme very well, do they? I hope to goodness they won’t get to hear of this job in the—in the academy. Bluecoat doesn’t understand that word, I’ll take oath. It would be a deuce of a thing if they got to know about it in Bala. You would lose your Diary on the instant. But it’ll be no use for you to-morrow to say your name is R.L., you know. You must be a Welshman with an alias. What if you were to say your name was Melltathraneoros-llanerchrugog? They wouldn’t know any better. I am bound to take another name, I being a bard, a sample of whose work you’ve seen in “nag” and “quod.” Have you nothing in the world to say?”

Will remained silent for some minutes. I spoke but a very few words. Indeed, I was too much afflicted in spirit to keep up a conversation. I wondered how Will could take matters so easily. I was on the point of telling him my trouble, and my fears lest the affair should become known at college and my home, when Will began again:

“I clean fail to see a way out of this scrape. Appearances are against us. The fate of both, on Bluecoat’s oath (that rhymes, doesn’t it?) depends entirely. It has just struck me whether Providence has resolved to give every one of your family the blessing of going to prison for a while. Some of them you know, were quite at home there; then there was your brother —one of the best lads breathing—he too had a spell. And now, here’s you. Are you down in Elian’s Well, say? Wait you, weren’t Paul and Silas in durance vile once? I slip into English unawares. Well, we are as harmless as they were. And how did they get out of the bother? Was it not by singing and prayer’ Well, if you’ll only pray I’ll sing until the place resounds. I’ll take oath!”

While Will was uttering those last words, we were both astonished by a loud laugh from the officer, who, addressing us in Welsh, said: “Boys, what was your business at that house?”

“Holloa! John Jones from the land of my fathers! Where’s your latch-key, to open these cuffs? Oes y byd i’r iaith Gymraeg!* Yes, that’s it. Cymry rhydd Cymry fydd!* I cried Will delightedly, as the officer was freeing us, which he promptly did. While he was taking the handcuffs from our wrists, Will heaped up words of commendation upon his head, amongst the most honourable of them being “trump,” ‘old brick,” “A 1,” &c., twisting together pleasantry, gratitude, a full and satisfactory explanation of our conduct, all on one string, without pausing to take breath, and winding up with an offer to stand the constable the price of a dinner.

“No!” replied the officer. “Bluecoat’ is ‘an exception.’ He won’t take any reward. Go home now, like good children.”

“You are true to nature and an honour to your country. You ought to be made an inspector at once,” declared Will.

After some further conversation with our captor we left, on good terms and in good spirits.

“Dye know what?” said Will. “I’ll never again say Bobbies are humbugs without exception. There are good sorts among them, also. I think, sometimes, it is worth a man’s while to get into a scrape, for the pleasure of getting out of it again. Only once was I ever in the grip of one of those chaps before—about a year ago. I knew a girl in this town— there was nothing definite between us, you know, only we were extra good friends—and one night I went to send her home. I accompanied her to the house and remained there some time— longer than I thought. I warrant you it was eleven o’clock, when, all of a sudden, I heard the mistress coming down from the sitting room; and the girl, instead of being straightforward and saying who I was, shoved me into a pantry, or some such place, where it was frightfully close. Well to you, I heard the missis ordering the girl to bed, and afterwards locking the front door and the back; but I never thought she would take the keys with her. After that I heard both going up the stairs; but I believed the girl would return to let me out. Nearly smothered, I opened the pantry door, or whatever it was. The fire was as dark as the black cow’s belly, and I didn’t know what in the world to do. I waited a while, and presently I heard the girl softly stealing down in her stocking feet. Never was I more glad to see candle light. I was in a hurry to get out, because I knew it wasn’t right to stay in anybody’s house on the sly. I was real sorry for the girl, when she told me her mistress had the keys and that it was impossible for me to leave. But I was bound to get out, if I had to break a hole in the wall; because it wouldn’t be true to nature, or honourable, to stay in the house all night. Said I to the girl, “What would be easier than to go through the front parlour window?” “Well, yes indeed,” she replied, being Welsh. So she put the candle on the table, and away we went to the parlour. I remember very well that the moon was shining on the window. There was a flower stand near by, and in my haste I upset one of the pots and smashed it. Fairplay for the girl, she said, “The cat’ll get the blame for that.” The lower part of the window, I should think, had not been opened for I don’t know how long, and after I had raised it some ten inches or so, it wouldn’t budge a peg. There was nothing to be done but to squeeze myself through. When I was about half-way, out, there I stuck, as tight as a wedge, and I thought once it was there I should remain. But I got help. In a couple of minutes I felt someone tugging at me, and the buttons of my vest being all torn away. It was the bobby— the point to which I was steering, only I’ve been rather long with my story. When the girl saw me in the policeman’s hands, she burst out crying at a fine rate, which was the first time I knew she was fond of me. ‘Don’t cry Gwen /ac/’j,’ said I to her—her name was Gwen—‘I’ll come and see you, directly I get out of gaol,’ which made her ten times worse. I never saw her again. But this is the point: that bobby knew very well I had done nothing wrong, and yet he wanted five shillings for letting me go. After a good deal of argument I brought him down to half a crown. Their screw is such a small one, you know, they must get a job of this sort sometimes to make up for it. Are you tired? Or are you not so swift of foot as you used to be? You drag in the understandings in a most remarkable way. Have you a touch of rheumatism, tell me? We haven’t far to go, now.”

“The less the better,” I responded. ‘I’m dreadfully tired. But do you know, Will? It is 65, Gregg Street I have for ever in my mind. How can I gain admission into that house?”

I then told my friend what I had witnessed before the officer handcuffed us, adding: “I am bound, before leaving this town, to get further light on what I have seen. It is evident Nic’las does not stay there. He had his hat on, as if he were about to start out. You understand my anxiety.”

After much consultation between us, Will presently said:—

“I have it! I Do you remember me bidding you not be in too great a hurry to put on a white tie? Circumstances alter cases; you must begin to wear one to-morrow. There are people here who call themselves town missionaries—men who are always going about looking up, not their friends, but someone who is sick or ungodly, to try and do good. Somehow or other they get at all those who are ill, as if they knew the scent of them. I have only been four days ill since I’m here. One of these people came to see me three times during that period, and told me a lot of good things—if I had only done them. There are two things I don’t like about them: one is, they expect a man to believe right off, without giving him time to consider; and the other, they puff the Gospel too much, to my mind. They are not like the old Corph, which thinks the Gospel too good to need puffing, and that those who want it will come to chapel to ask for it. No, these town missionaries are like the patent medicine men, who advertise every day, and leave a paper in every house, giving an account of a lot of people who’ve been cured. What puzzles me about them is that they are never in the glums, like your mother, old Abel, and others in the chapel at home, whom I knew to be extra pious. No danger 1 The town missionaries are always jolly, as if they had never sinned I’ll take oath they are good people, because they don’t want anything with a body except to do him good. Still, I can’t swallow it how they’re always so happy. And they expect everybody else to be the same. I sometimes think that if the angel Gabriel had sinned as much as I have, though he got forgiveness, he’d be down in the dumps, occasionally, even in heaven itself. But these town missionaries never are; and the common people and the poor respect them and let them into their houses to give them advice. D’ye see the plan? You can speak English properly,. and there’s nothing to prevent your going to 65, Gregg Street and killing two birds with the one stone. But here’s my crib. Don’t expect to find a smart place, for I haven’t begun to keep a butler, yet.”

Will took a key from his pocket and let us both into his lodgings. When he had shut the door we were in perfect darkness. Will struck a match. On a little table behind us, I saw a candlestick. Will on lighting the candle said,

“I am the last in to-night, or you’d see a lot of candles here. This house is for all the world—you follow me upstairs, and don’t make more noise than you can help, for everybody is asleep—for all the world like a dove cot. There are eight of us staying here, every one with a room to himself, and not one of us knowing yet in which room the landlady, her daughter and the servant live. But they are here somewhere. Here is my room. The best thing I can say about my billet is that it’s clean. Make yourself at home while I get the grub ready. Here’s a place for you to wash; for you shan’t eat in my house without washing, after handling that son of a gun’s corpse.”

I was astonished. In size the room was only about four yards square, and yet it contained a bed, a cupboard, two chairs, a round table, and several other necessaries besides. On the table was a clean white cloth, with a cup and saucer, two plates and two knives and forks. By the fire side were a kettle and a coffee pot.

“I see,” remarked Will, pulling off his coat for a wash, “that you are taking stock. Which would you rather? Tea or coffee?”

“Well, Will bach!” I exclaimed. “And you have come to this!”

I could hardly help laughing.

“Come to what?” asked Will. ‘To one room? I maintain it’s true to nature. Every creature God made, except man, lives in one room, after leaving the open air; and it’s the merest humbug to have a lot of rooms. Besides, how can even man live in more than one room at a time? The thing is a physical impossibility. You mustn’t think ’tis hard up I am; as I shall show you directly. Say the word: tea or coffee?”

“Tea,” I replied.

“Same here,” said Will unlocking the cupboard, taking out the indispensables and deftly preparing the meal.

“You needn’t have a better woman than this landlady of mine,” he observed. “Sometimes I don’t see her for a whole week together. When I want anything, I write the order on that slate, put the money on the mantlepiece, and, by the time I get back, all will be snug on the table. When I first came here I never used to lock the cupboard, and I must admit my landlady, at that time, would take the loan of some of my things, now and again. I’ll tell you how I caught her. I found that the tea got low rather quickly, so what did I do but catch a live fly and clap it into the canister. When I next went to open it the fly was gone. That was a proof positive. But the fault was mine; the woman was honest enough if I only locked the cupboard.”

All this Will spoke on his knees, before the fire, broiling ham upon a fork. In a few minutes the meal was ready. After a little reflection Will said, “I see there is a drawback—I have only one cup and saucer; but, for this occasion you take the cup and I’ll take the saucer.”

So we did, and from that day to this I never remember enjoying a meal more heartily. Subsequently, at my request, Will related his history. Although I believe I could repeat it almost word for word, I shall only attempt a chronicle of the principal facts, doing so as near as can be in his own words, which were as follow:—