e. William, who had made himself responsible for the old
man's debts, endured him on the whole very creditably. "Here's a bad
'un," "Here's a bad 'un," piped the voice from time to time.

William trimmed away at his washer.

"Hello! Who's been putting this in the ledger?" The old man held up a
thin strip of leather. "Oh, Willum, here's a very bad 'un!"

"What name?" asked William indifferently, without turning his head.

"Wesley, Reverend Samuel--Wroote and Epworth Rectory--
twelve-seventeen-six. Two years owing, and not a stiver on account.
Oh, a poisonous bad 'un!"

"That's all right!"

"Not a stiver on account!"

"All right, I tell you. There won't be any paying on account with
that bill: it'll be all or nothing. All, perhaps; and, if so,
something more than all"--he laid down his clasp-knife and almost
involuntarily put a hand up to his cheek--"but nothing, most like.
I put that slip of leather there to remind me, but I don't need it.
'Twelve-seventeen-six'--better scratch it off."

"'Scratch it off'? Scratch off twelve-seventeen-six!" Old Wright
spun round on his stool. But William sat gazing out of the window.
He had picked up his knife again, but did not at once resume work.

The next thing old Wright heard was the clatter of a knife on the
bench. William sprang up as it dropped, crept swiftly to the shop
door, and stood there craning his head into the street and fumbling
with his apron.

"What's the matter? Cut yourself? It don't want a doctor, do it?"

William did not answer: suddenly he plucked off his apron, flung it
backwards into the shop, and disappeared into the street. The old
man tottered forward, picked it off the floor and stood examining it,
his mouth opening and shutting like a fish's.

CHAPTER II.

"'Brought him'! Who told you to bring him?"

Hetty's lover faced her across the round table in the lodging-house
parlour. The table was spread for two, and Hetty's knife and plate
stood ready for her with a covered dish before it. He had
breakfasted, and their entrance surprised him with an empty pewter in
his hand, his chair thrust back sideways from the table, his legs
extended towards the empty fire-place, and his eyes bent on his
handsome calves with a somewhat moody frown.

"Who told you to bring him?"

John Romley stood in the doorway behind Hetty's shoulder. She turned
to him bravely and quietly, albeit with the scare in her face.

"I ought not to have