"Somewhere on the road they took leave of one another; but nobody saw
the parting, nor heard what was said between them. About three in
the afternoon the trumpeter came walking back over the hill; and by
the time my father came home from the fishing, the cottage was tidied
up and the tea ready, and the whole place shining like a new pin.
From that time for five years he lodged here with my father, looking
after the house and tilling the garden; and all the while he was
steadily failing, the hurt in his head spreading, in a manner, to his
limbs. My father watched the feebleness growing on him, but said
nothing. And from first to last neither spake a word about the
drummer, John Christian; nor did any letter reach them, nor word of
his doings.

"The rest of the tale you'm free to believe, sir, or not, as you
please. It stands upon my father's words, and he always declared he
was ready to kiss the Book upon it before judge and jury. He said,
too, that he never had the wit to make up such a yarn; and he defied
anyone to explain about the lock, in particular, by any other tale.
But you shall judge for yourself.

"My father said that about three o'clock in the morning, April
fourteenth of the year 'fourteen, he and William Tallifer were
sitting here, just as you and I, sir, are sitting now. My father had
put on his clothes a few minutes before, and was mending his spiller
by the light of the horn lantern, meaning to set off before daylight
to haul the trammel. The trumpeter hadn't been to bed at all.
Towards the last he mostly spent his nights (and his days, too)
dozing in the elbow-chair where you sit at this minute. He was
dozing then (my father said), with his chin dropped forward on his