and spaciousness, and there shall be found in all Dorset, no brighter,
cheerfuller place than this. Bridport's very workhouse, south-facing and
bowered in green, blinks half a hundred windows amiably at the noonday
sun and helps to soften the life-failure of those who dwell therein. Off
Barrack Street it stands, and at the time of the terror, when Napoleon
threatened, soldiers hived here and gave the way its name.

Not far from the workhouse two inns face each other in Barrack
Street--'The Tiger' upon one side of the way, 'The Seven Stars' upon the
other; and at the moment when Henry Ironsyde's dust was reaching the
bottom of his grave at Bridetown, a young man of somewhat inane
countenance, clad in garments that displayed devotion to sport and
indifference to taste, entered 'The Tiger's' private bar.

Behind the counter stood Richard Gurd, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered
publican with a large and clean-shaven face, heavy-jaw, rather sulky
eyes and mighty hands.

"The usual," said the visitor. "Ray been here?"

Mr. Gurd shook his head.

"No, Mr. Ned--nor likely to. They're burying his father this morning."

The publican poured out a glass of cherry brandy as he spoke and Mr.
Neddy Motyer rolled a cigarette.

"Ray ain't going," said the customer.

"Not going to his father's funeral!"