rue countryman's
aversion to putting all his eggs in one basket; and although Messrs.
Climo and Hodges were safe as the Bank of England, preferred to keep
this portion of his wealth in his own stocking. He closed the Bible
hastily; rammed it back, upside down, in its place; then took it out
again, and stood holding it in his two hands and trembling. He was
living in sin: he was minded to sin yet deeper. And yet what had he
done to deserve Naomi in comparison with the unspeakable tribulations
this simple mariner had suffered? Sure, God must have preserved the
fellow with especial care, and of wise purpose brought him through
shipwreck, famine, and madness home to his lawful wife. The man had
made Naomi a good husband. Had William Geake made her a better?
(Husband?)--here he dropped the Bible down on the table again as if it
burned his fingers. Whatever had to be done must be done quickly. Here
was the innocent wrecker of so much happiness hanging on his lips for
the next word, watching wistfully for his orders, like any spaniel
dog. And Naomi would be back before nightfall. God was giving him no
time: it was unfair to hustle a man in this way. In the whirl of his
thoughts he seemed to hear Naomi's footfall drawing nearer and nearer
home. He could almost upbraid the Almighty here for leaving him and
Naomi childless. A child would have made the temptation irresistible.

"I wish a'most that I'd never called, if it puts you out so terrible,"
was the wanderer's plaintive remark after two minutes of silent
waiting.

This sentence settled it. The temptation _was_ irresistible. Geake
unlocked the skivet, plunged a hand in and banged down a fistful of
notes on the table.

"Here," said he; "here's five-an'-twenty pound'. You shall have it all
if you'll go straight out o' this door an' back to America."

IV.

Half-an-hour later, William Geake was standing by his garden-gate
again. Every now and then he glanced down the road towards St.
Austell, and after each glance resumed his nervous picking at the
blister of green paint that had troubled him earlier in the day. He
was face to face with a new and smaller, but sufficiently vexing,
difficulty. Abe Bricknell had gone, taking with him the five
five-pound notes. So far so good, and cheap at the price. But the
skivet was empty: and the day was Saturday: and every Saturday
evening, as regularly as he wound up the big eight-day clock in the
kitchen, Naomi and he would sit down a