eeing that it would have saved a lot of bother,
and other precious lives also," replied Oily Dave, with the look
and pose of a man who is bitterly misunderstood.

"Why, you must be stark, staring mad to talk like this!" exclaimed
Miles, in doubt whether to heave the nearest article on which he
could lay hands at the head of Oily Dave, or to pity him as a
lunatic.

"I'm no more mad than you are, young 'un; but there's a deal of
what scholars call practical economy in me, and I can't bear waste
of no sort or kind, I can't. Why, when customers come to my hotel
and leaves any liquor in their mugs, which is but seldom, I always
goes and drains 'em down my own neck, to stop waste. And so I says
that if Mr. Ferrars hadn't been saved that first time, we should
have been spared trouble since."

"What trouble have you ever taken in the matter?" demanded Miles.

"Didn't I risk my life, and wet myself to the skin, pulling him and
Miss Selincourt out of the tidehole?" asked Oily Dave. "If you
misdoubt my word, ask your sister, who was there and helped as well
as a gal could, which isn't much anyhow. Well, there was three
lives in danger that time, him, and me, and Miss Selincourt, and I
dare say your sister got dampish at the feet. Now, this third and
last time, matters is a deal more serious still. Nick Jones leaves
a widow, though she don't much count. Stee Jenkin leaves a widow,
nice little woman too. Then there's the children, poor things,
orphans afore they are big enough to earn a penny for themselves.
Bobby Poole hadn't a wife certainly, but he would have had by and
by, most likely. It is a bad business altogether. And now I want
some tobacco."

Oily Dave jerked out this last statement with a swift change of
tone from mournful regret to cheerful business complacency, and
Miles served him in silence, too saddened by the heavy tidings from
the sea to break into resentful angry speech with this man, who
appeared devoid of either heart or feeling. Then the heavy boots
squelched out again, going towards the river bank, where the
waiting boat was tied to the mooring post. A moment of waiting to
make sure he did not return, and then Katherine, pale now as a
ghost, glided out from the shadow of the rugs.

"Miles, dear, can you do without me for the rest of the day if need
be? I am going down river to poor Mrs. Jenkin," she said, her
voice steady though strained.

"I can manage; but look at the rain!" he exclaim