"Didn't know you 'ad one," said Mr. Wotton calmly. "Wot's she done?"

"She left me," said Mr. Davis, solemnly--"she left me thirty-five years
ago. I went off to sea one fine morning, and that was the last I ever
see of er.

"Why, did she bolt?" inquired Mr. Wotton, with mild interest.

"No," said his friend, "but I did. We'd been married three years--three
long years--and I had 'ad enough of it. Awful temper she had. The last
words I ever heard 'er say was: 'Take that!'"

Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after satisfying himself as to the
absence of contents, put it down again and yawned.

"I shouldn't worry about it if I was you," he remarked. "She's hardly
likely to find you now. And if she does she won't get much."

Mr. Davis gave vent to a contemptuous laugh. "Get much!" he repeated.
"It's her what's got it. I met a old shipmate of mine this morning what
I 'adn't seen for ten years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only a
month ago. After she left me--"

"But you said you left her!" exclaimed his listening friend.

"Same thing," said Mr. Davis, impatiently. "After she left me to work
myself to death at sea, running here and there at the orders of a pack
o'lazy scuts aft, she went into service and stayed in one place for
fifteen years. Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er money. For