in spirals. Several of Mr. Curtenty's geese were knocked down, and rose
obviously annoyed; but the Barnacle gander fell with a clinging circle
of wire round his muscular, glossy neck, and did not rise again. It was
a violent, mysterious, agonizing, and sudden death for him, and must
have confirmed his theories about the arbitrariness of things. The
thirteen passed pitilessly on. Mr. Curtenty freed the gander from the
coiling wire, and picked it up, but, finding it far too heavy to carry,
he handed it to a Corporation road-sweeper.

'I'll send for it,' he said; 'wait here.'

These were the only words uttered by him during a memorable journey.

The second disaster was that the deceitful afternoon turned to
rain--cold, cruel rain, persistent rain, full of sinister significance.
Mr. Curtenty ruefully raised the velvet of his Melton. As he did so a
brougham rolled into Oldcastle Street, a little in front of him, from
the direction of St. Peter's Church, and vanished towards Hillport. He
knew the carriage; he had bought it and paid for it. Deep, far down, in
his mind stirred the thought:

'I'm just the least bit glad she didn't see me.'

He had the suspicion, which recurs even to optimists, that happiness is
after all a chimera.

The third disaster was that the sun set and darkness descended. Mr.
Curtenty had, unfortunately, not reckoned with this diurnal phenomenon;
he had not thought upon the undesirability of being under compulsion to
drive geese by the sole illumination of gas-lamps lighted by Corporation