She stood for a few moments, considering. It was a stout door and
opened inwards. She took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen and,
walking softly to the street-door, set off to lay the case before a
brother who lived a few doors away.

"Poor old Bill," said Mr. Cooper, when she had finished. "Still, it
might be worse; he's got the barrel o' beer with him."

"It's not Bill," said Mrs. Simpson.

Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and looked at his wife.

"She ought to know," said the latter. "We'll come and have a look at
him," said Mr. Cooper.

Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him dubiously.

"Come in and have a bit of supper," she said at last. "There's a nice
piece of beef and pickles."

"And Bill--I mean the stranger--sitting on the beer-barrel," said Mr.
Cooper, gloomily.

"You can bring your beer with you," said his sister, sharply. "Come
along."

Mr. Cooper grinned, and, placing a couple of bottles in his coat
pockets, followed the two ladies to the house. Seated at the kitchen
table, he grinned again, as a persistent drumming took place on the
cellar door. His wife smiled, and a faint, sour attempt in the same