"I'm obeying orders," growled the other.

"Quite right," said Mr. Smith, approvingly, as he drew a bottle of whisky
from his bag and placed it on the table. "Two glasses and there we are.
We don't want any salt and vinegar this time."

Mr. Wilks turned a deaf ear. "But 'ow are you going to manage so as to
make one silly and not the other?" he inquired.

"It's a trade secret," said the other; "but I don't mind telling you I
sent the cap'n something to take afore he comes, and I shall be in your
kitchen looking arter things."

"I s'pose you know wot you're about?" said Mr. Wilks, doubtfully.

"I s'pose so," rejoined the other. "Young Nu-gent trusts you, and, of
course, he'll take anything from your 'ouse. That's the beauty of 'aving
a character, Mr. Wilks; a good character and a face like a baby with grey
whiskers."

Mr. Wilks bent down and, taking up a small brush, carefully tidied up the
hearth.

"Like as not, if my part in it gets to be known," pursued Mr. Smith,
mournfully, "I'll 'ave that gal of Kybird's scratching my eyes out or
p'r'aps sticking a hat-pin into me. I had that once; the longest hat-pin
that ever was made, I should think."

He shook his head over the perils of his calling, and then, after another
glance at the clock, withdrew to the kitchen with his bag, leaving Mr.