"That's me," said young Nugent, cheerfully; "I should have known you
anywhere, Kybird: same old face, same old voice, same old shirt-sleeves."

"'Ere, come now," objected the shopkeeper, shortening his arm and
squinting along it.

"I should have known you anywhere," continued the other, mournfully; "and
here I've thrown up a splendid berth and come all the way from Australia
just for one glimpse of Miss Kybird, and she doesn't know me. When I
die, Kybird, you will find the word 'Calais' engraven upon my heart."

Mr. Kybird said, "Oh, indeed." His daughter tossed her head and bade Mr.
Nugent take his nonsense to people who might like it.

"Last time I see you," said Mr. Kybird, pursing up his lips and gazing at
the counter in an effort of memory; "last time I see you was one fifth o'
November when you an' another bright young party was going about in two
suits o' oilskins wot I'd been 'unting for 'igh and low all day long."

Jack Nugent sighed. "They were happy times, Kybird."

"Might ha' been for you," retorted the other, his temper rising a little
at the remembrance of his wrongs.

"Have you come home for good? inquired Miss Kybird, curiously. Have you
seen your father? He passed here a little while ago."

"I saw him," said Jack, with a brevity which was not lost upon the astute
Mr. Kybird. "I may stay in Sunwich, and I may not--it all depends."