'My dear Johnny, if you don't think the tontine worth a little trouble,
say so, and I'll give the business up.'

'You're dead certain of the figures, I suppose?' asked John.
'Well'--with a deep sigh--'send me the Pink Un and all the comic papers
regularly. I'll face the music.'

As afternoon drew on, the cottage breathed more thrillingly of its
native marsh; a creeping chill inhabited its chambers; the fire smoked,
and a shower of rain, coming up from the channel on a slant of wind,
tingled on the window-panes. At intervals, when the gloom deepened
toward despair, Morris would produce the whisky-bottle, and at first
John welcomed the diversion--not for long. It has been said this spirit
was the worst in Hampshire; only those acquainted with the county can
appreciate the force of that superlative; and at length even the Great
Vance (who was no connoisseur) waved the decoction from his lips. The
approach of dusk, feebly combated with a single tallow candle, added
a touch of tragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his
fingers--an art to the practice of which he had been reduced--and
bitterly lamented his concessions.

'I can't stay here a month,' he cried. 'No one could. The thing's
nonsense, Morris. The parties that lived in the Bastille would rise
against a place like this.'

With an admirable affectation of indifference, Morris proposed a game
of pitch-and-toss. To what will not the diplomatist condescend! It was
John's favourite game; indeed his only game--he had found all the rest
too intellectual--and he played it with equal skill and good fortune. To
Morris himself, on the other hand, the whole business was detestable;