"Who's old Mr. Silver, and what should he know about it?" inquired Mr.
Boxer.

"He's a fortune-teller," replied his wife. "Reads the stars," said his
mother-in-law.

Mr. Boxer laughed--a good ringing laugh. "What did he tell you?" he
inquired. "Nothing," said his wife, hastily. "Ah!" said Mr. Boxer,
waggishly, "that was wise of 'im. Most of us could tell fortunes that
way."

"That's wrong," said Mrs. Gimpson to her daughter, sharply. "Right's
right any day, and truth's truth. He said that he knew all about John
and what he'd been doing, but he wouldn't tell us for fear of 'urting our
feelings and making mischief."

"Here, look 'ere," said Mr. Boxer, starting up; "I've 'ad about enough o'
this. Why don't you speak out what you mean? I'll mischief 'im, the old
humbug. Old rascal."

"Never mind, John," said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm. "Here
you are safe and sound, and as for old Mr. Silver, there's a lot o'
people don't believe in him."

"Ah! they don't want to," said Mrs. Gimpson, obstinately. "But don't
forget that he foretold my cough last winter."

"Well, look 'ere," said Mr. Boxer, twisting his short, blunt nose into as
near an imitation of a sneer as he could manage, "I've told you my story
and I've got witnesses to prove it. You can write to the master of the