longing to arrive and get something over--he scarcely knew
what. When at length he stood on the ferry slipway, with but a furlong or
two of water between him and home, the very tranquillity of the scene
irritated him subtly--the slow strength of the evening tide, the few ships
idle at their moorings, the familiar hush of the town resting after its
day's business. He tapped his foot on the cobbles as though this fretful
action could quicken Uncle Nicky Vro, who came rowing across deliberately
as ever, working his boat down the farther shore and then allowing the
tide to slant it upstream to the landing-place.

"Eh? So 'tis you?" was Nicky's greeting. "Well, and I hope that you've
enjoyed your holiday--not that I know, for my part, what a holiday means."

"It's time you took one, then," Rosewarne answered.

The old man chuckled. "Pretty things would happen if I did! 'Took a day
off, one time, to marry my old woman, and another to bury her, and that's
all in five-and-forty year. Not a day's sickness in all that time, thank
the Lord!"

Rosewarne watched the old fellow's feeble digging stroke. "I preach
capability," he said to himself, "and this is the sort of thing I allow!"
His gaze travelled from the oar to the oarsman. "You're getting past your
work, all the same," he said aloud. "What does it feel like?"

"Eh?"

"To give up life little by little. Some men run till they drop--are still
running strong, maybe, when the grave opens at their feet, and in they go.
With you 'tis more like the crumbling of rotten timber; a little dribble
of sawdust day by day to show where the worms are boring. What does it
feel like?"

"I don't feel it at all," Nicky answered cheerfully. "Folks tell me from
time to time that I'm getting past. My own opinion is, they're in a
greater hurry to get to market than of yore. 'Competition '--that's a cry
sprung up since my young days: it used to be 'Religion,' and 'Nicholas
Vro, be you a saved man?' The ferry must ply, week-day or Sabbath: I put
it to you, What time have I got to be a saved man? The Lord is good, says
I. Now I'll tell you a fancy of mine about Him. One day He'll come down
to the slip calling 'Over!' and whiles I put Him across--scores of times
I've a-seen myself doing it, and 'tis always in the cool of the evening
after a spell of summer weather--He'll speak up like a gentleman, and ask,
'Nicholas Vro, how long have you been a-working this here boat?'
'Lord,'