the late Mr. Henry Ironsyde found no time for all-round wisdom. He
poured his brains into hemp and jute and such like. Why, he didn't even
make a minute to court and wed till he was forty-five year old. And the
result of that was that when his brace of boys was over twenty, he stood
in sight of seventy and could only see life at that angle. And what made
it worse was, that his eldest, Mister Daniel, was cut just in his own
pattern. So the late gentleman never could forgive Mr. Raymond for being
cut in another pattern. But if what you say is right and Mister Raymond
has been left out in the cold, then I think he's been badly used."

"So he has--it's a damned shame," said Mr. Motyer, "and I hope Ray will
do something about it."

"There's very little we can do against the writing of the dead,"
answered Mr. Gurd. Then he saluted a man who bustled into the bar.

"Morning, Job. What's the trouble?"

Job Legg was very tall and thin. He dropped at the middle, but showed
vitality and energy in his small face and rodent features. His hair was
black, and his thin mouth and chin clean-shaven. His eyes were small and
very shrewd; his manner was humble. He had a monotonous inflection and
rather chanted in a minor key than spoke.

"Mrs. Northover's compliments and might we have the big fish kettle
till to-morrow? A party have been sprung on us, and five-and-twenty sit
down to lunch in the pleasure gardens at two o'clock."

"And welcome, Job. Go round to the kitchen, will 'e?"