father's dirty work! Toy, run an' pull the
ears of 'en!--'twon't be noticed if you pull 'em an inch longer than they
be."

The boy, as Mr. Toy ran towards him with a face that meant business,
dropped off the wall on its far side, and charged up the hill for home in
a terror scarcely less urgent than Methuselah's. Nor did he feel safe
until, at the gate of Hall, he tumbled into his father's arms and panted
out his story.

"Talked about my 'dirty work,' did he?" mused Mr. Sam, pulling at his
under-lip. He wheeled about and walked straight to the counting-house,
where Mr. Benny sat addressing Michaelmas bills.

"Put those aside for a moment," he commanded. "I want a letter written."

Mr. Benny took a sheet of notepaper from the rack, dipped his pen, and
looked up attentively.

"It's for the ferryman below here--Old Vro, as you call him. Write that
after Saturday next his services will not be required."

Mr. Benny laid down his pen slowly and stared at his master.

"I beg your pardon, sir--you can't mean that you're dismissing him?"

"Why not?"

"What, old Nicky Vro?" Mr. Benny shook his head, as much as to say that
the thing could not be done.

"He has been grossly impudent. Apart from that, his incompetence is a
scandal, and I have wondered more than once how my father put up with it.
In justice to the public using the ferry, and to Lady Killiow as owner of
the ferry rights--But, excuse me, I prefer not to argue the matter.
He must go. Will you, please, write the letter, and deliver it when you
cross the ferry at dinner-time."

"But, indeed, Mr. Samuel--you must forgive me, sir--old Nicky may be
cantankerous at times, but he means no harm to any living soul.
The passengers make allowances: he's a part of the ferry, as you might
say. As for impudence--if he really has been impudent--will you let me
talk to him, sir? I'll engage he asks pardon and promises not to offend
again. But think, before in your anger you turn him adrift--where can the
old man go, but to the workhouse? What can he have saved, on twelve
shillings a week? For every twelve shillings he's earned Lady Killiow
three to five pounds, week by week, these forty years; and not one penny
of it, I'll undertake to say, has he kept back from her ladyship.
What wage is it, after all, for the years of a man's strength that now,
with a few more years to live, he should lose it?"

"Have you done?"

Mr. Benny stood up. "I should never ha