four years that they neglected to pay up their subscription.
Six dollars due. No visitor could have been more welcome. He would
know all about Uncle Tilbury and what his chances might be getting
to be, cemeterywards. They could, of course, ask no questions,
for that would squelch the bequest, but they could nibble around on
the edge of the subject and hope for results. The scheme did not work.
The obtuse editor did not know he was being nibbled at; but at last,
chance accomplished what art had failed in. In illustration of something
under discussion which required the help of metaphor, the editor said:

"Land, it's a tough as Tilbury Foster!--as WE say."

It was sudden, and it made the Fosters jump. The editor noticed,
and said, apologetically:

"No harm intended, I assure you. It's just a saying; just a joke,
you know--nothing of it. Relation of yours?"

Sally crowded his burning eagerness down, and answered with all
the indifference he could assume:

"I--well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him." The editor
was thankful, and resumed his composure. Sally added: "Is he
--is he--well?"

"Is he WELL? Why, bless you he's in Sheol these five years!"

The Fosters were trembling with grief, though it felt like joy.
Sally said, non-committally--and tentatively: