as not accepted as an
excuse. And as his gross profits could be calculated by any dunce who
chose to stand on the beach for half a day, it was not easy for him to
pretend that he was on the brink of starvation. He could only ward off
attacks by stating with vague, convinced sadness that his expenses were
much greater than any one could imagine.

In September, when the moon was red and full, and the sea glassy, he
announced a series of nocturnal "Rocket Fetes." The lifeboat, hung with
Chinese lanterns, put out in the evening (charge five shillings) and,
followed by half the harbour's fleet of rowing-boats and cutters,
proceeded to the neighbourhood of the strip of beach, where a rocket
apparatus had been installed by the help of the Lifeboat Secretary. The
mortar was trained; there was a flash, a whizz, a line of fire, and a
rope fell out of the sky across the lifeboat. The effect was thrilling
and roused cheers. Never did the Lifeboat Institution receive such an
advertisement as Denry gave it--gratis.

After the rocketing Denry stood alone on the slopes of the Little Orme
and watched the lanterns floating home over the water, and heard the
lusty mirth of his clients in the still air. It was an emotional
experience for him.

"By Jove!" he said, "I've wakened this town up!"

VI

One morning, in the very last sad days of the dying season, when his
receipts had dropped to the miserable figure of about fifty pounds a
week, Denry had a great and pleasing surprise. He met Nellie on the
Parade. It was a fact that the recognition of that innocent, childlike
blushing face gave him joy. Nellie was with her father, Councillor
Cotterill, and her mother. The Councillor was a speculative builder, who
was erecting several streets of British homes in the new quarter above
the new municipal park at Bursley. Denry had already encountered him
once or twice in the way of business. He was a big and portly man of
forty-five, with a thin face and a consciousness of prosperity. At one
moment you would think him a jolly, bluff fellow, and at the next you
would be disconcerted by a note of cunning or of harshness. Mrs
Councillor Cotterill was one of these women who fail to live up to the
ever-increasing height of their husbands. Afflicted with an eternal
stage-fright, she never opened her close-pressed lips in society, though
a few people knew that she could talk as fast and as effectively as any
one. Difficult to set in motion, her vocal