"There you are!" she said.--"And now you've got it, how are you going to
give him the money?"

"Never you mind!" and Tom swept all the coins together, and screwed them
up in a piece of newspaper. "We'll surprise the old man as the angels
surprise the children!"

Miss Tranter said nothing more, but withdrawing to the passage, stood
and watched her customers go out of the door of the "Trusty Man," one by
one. Each great hulking fellow doffed his cap to her and bade her a
respectful "Good-night" as he passed, "Feathery" Joltram pausing a
moment to utter an "aside" in her ear.

"'A fixed oop owd Arbroath for zartin zure!"--and here, with a sly wink,
he gave a forcible nudge to her arm,--"An owd larrupin' fox 'e be!--an'
Matt Peke giv' 'im the finish wi's fav'rite! Ha--ha--ha! 'A can't abide
a wurrd o' that long-legged wench! Ha--ha--ha! An' look y'ere, Miss
Tranter! I'd 'a given a shillin' in Tom's 'at when it went round, but
I'm thinkin' as zummat in the face o' the owd gaffer up in bed ain't zet
on beggin', an' m'appen a charity'd 'urt 'is feelin's like the
poor-'ouse do. But if 'e's wantin' to 'arn a mossel o' victual, I'll
find 'im a lightsome job on the farm if he'll reckon to walk oop to me
afore noon to-morrer. Tell 'im' that from farmer Joltram, an' good-night
t'ye!"

He strode out, and before eleven had struck, the old-fashioned iron bar
clamped down across the portal, and the inn was closed. Then Miss
Tranter turned into the bar, and before shutting it up paused, and
surveyed her three lodgers critically.

"So you pretend to be all miserably poor, and yet you actually collect
what you call a 'fund' for the old tramp upstairs who's a perfect
stranger to you!" she said--"Rascals that you are!"

Bill Bush looked sheepish.

"Only halfpence, Miss," he explained. "Poor we be as church mice, an' ye
knows that, doesn't ye? But we aint gone broken yet, an' Tom 'e started
the idee o' doin' a good turn for th' old gaffer, for say what ye like
'e do look a bit feeble for trampin' it."

Miss Tranter sniffed the atmosphere of the bar with a very good
assumption of lofty indifference.

"_You_ started the idea, did you?" she went on, looking at Tom o' the
Gleam. "You're a nice sort of ruffian to start any idea at all, aren't
you? I thought you always took, and never gave!"

He smiled, leaning his handsome head back against the white-washed wall
of the little entry where he stood, but said nothing. Matt Peke then
too