? Not a bit of it. Shank's mare, my boy, every step of the
way; and Martha's worth it. That's the best of bein' in love; it
makes you want to do things. By the way," he asked "you ain't
thinkin' to learn the violin, by any chance?"

"No, sir."

"No," he said reflectively. "You wouldn't--not at Stimcoe's.
Not, mind you, that I believe in coddling. Nobody ever coddled
Nelson, and yet what happened?" He shut one eye, put his pencil to
it for an imaginary telescope, and took a nautical survey of the back
premises.

"That rain-shute's out of order," he said, addressing Captain Coffin.
"Give me a shilling to put it right for you, and you'll save yourself
a lot of trouble."

"That's the landlord's affair," answered Captain Coffin, "and I'm not
paying you fippence an' hour to talk.

"But, sir," I put in, "if you walk to Plymouth you must pass the
house where I live--a low-roofed house about three miles this side of
St. Germans village, with a thatch on it, and windows opening right
on the road, and 'Minden Cottage' painted over the door."

"Know it? Bless my soul, to be sure I know it! Why, the last time
but one I passed that way, taking note that one of the window-hinges
was out of gear, I knocked and asked leave to repair it. A lady with
side-curls opened the door, and after the job was done took me into
the parlour an' gave me a jugful of cider over and above the sixpence
charged. I believe she'd have made it a shillin', too, only when I
told her she lived in a very pretty house, and asked if she owned it
or rented it, she turned very stiff in her manner. Touchy as tinder
she was; and if that comes of being a lady, I'm glad my Martha's more
sociable."

"That was Plinny--Miss Plinlimmon, I mean. You didn't catch sight of
my father--Major Brooks?"

"No, I didn't. But I stopped to pass the time o' day with the
landlord of the Seven Stars Inn, a mile along the road, and there I
heard about 'en. So you're Major Brooks's son? Well, then, by all
accounts you've got a thunderin' good father. Old English gentleman,
straight is a ramrod--pays his way, fears God and honours the King--
such was the landlord's words; and he told me the cottage, as you
call it, was rented at twenty-five pounds a year, with a walled
garden an' a paddock thrown in, which I call dirt cheap."

"I don't see that it's any business of yours what my father pays for
his house!" said I, my flush of pleasure changing to one of
annoyanc