DEEP WATERS

By W.W. JACOBS



FAMILY CARES

Mr. Jernshaw, who was taking the opportunity of a lull in business to
weigh out pound packets of sugar, knocked his hands together and stood
waiting for the order of the tall bronzed man who had just entered the
shop--a well-built man of about forty--who was regarding him with blue
eyes set in quizzical wrinkles.

"What, Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Jernshaw, in response to the wrinkles.
"Harry Barrett!"

"That's me," said the other, extending his hand. "The rolling stone come
home covered with moss."

Mr. Jernshaw, somewhat excited, shook hands, and led the way into the
little parlour behind the shop.

"Fifteen years," said Mr. Barrett, sinking into a chair, "and the old
place hasn't altered a bit."

"Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb Street to a Barrett,"
said the grocer, regarding him, "but I never thought of you. I suppose
you've done well, then?"