hair, it had
been whitening ever since.

For dreadful things had happened in those five years. To begin with,
the new Lord Proprietor had upset prophecy by coming into residence,
and had reared himself a handsome house on the near island of
Inniscaw.... But here for a while let us forbear to retrace those five
years with their humiliating memories. It is enough that the Commandant
now walked with a stoop; that he wore not only his linen frayed but a
frayed coat also; and that he who of old had so often wished that
England would take note of his Islands against the western sun, now
prayed rather that the fogs would cover them and cut them off from
sight forever. He had practical reasons, too, for such a prayer; but of
these he was not thinking as he turned there by the windmill, and spied
Sergeant Treacher approaching along the ridge, and trundling a
wheel-barrow full of manure. The level sun-rays, painting the turf to a
green almost unnaturally vivid, and gilding the straw of the manure,
passed on to flame upon Sergeant Treacher's breast as though beneath
his unbuttoned tunic he wore a corslet of burnished brass. The
Commandant blinked, again removed his glasses, and, having repolished,
resumed them.

"Treacher, what are you wearing?"

"Meanin' the weskit, sir?" asked Treacher.

"Is it a waistcoat?"

"Well, sir, it used to be an antimacassar; but Miss Gabriel had it made
up for me, all the shirts in store bein' used up, so to speak."

Too well the Commandant recognised it; an abomination of crochet work
in stripes, four inches wide, of scarlet, green, orange-yellow, and
violet. For years--in fact ever since he remembered Miss Gabriel's
front parlour--it had decorated the back of Miss Gabriel's sofa.

"She said, sir, that with the autumn drawing on, and the winter coming,
it would cut up nicely for a weskit," Treacher explained.

"Miss Gabriel," began the Commandant, "Miss Gabriel has no business----"

"No, sir?" suggested Treacher, after a pause.

"You will take it off. You will take it off this instant, and hand it
to me."

"Yes, sir." Treacher obediently slipped off his tunic. "I don't like
the thing myself; it's too noticeable, though warming. Miss Gabriel
called it a Chesterfield."

"It's a conspiracy!" said the Commandant.

CHAPTER II

SERGEANT ARCHELAUS IS RE-FITTED

The Commandant, still with a hot heart, walked for a little way beside
Sergeant Treacher. He carried the offending waist