hers, and
shopkeepers generally. Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative
unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. He had only been twisted
uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen
standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. Mr
Twitter was not absolutely ruined. He had only "got into difficulties."

But this was a small matter in his and his good wife's eyes compared
with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy. He had
always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, "_so_
sensitive." It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness
was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same
weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful
banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his
family in disgrace.

"You have not yet advertised, I think?" said Crackaby.

"No, not yet," answered Twitter; "we cannot bear to publish it. But we
have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them
this very evening; and I shouldn't wonder if that was him," he added, as
a loud knock was heard at the door.

"Please, ma'am," said the domestic, "Mr Welland's at the door with
another gentleman. 'E says 'e won't come in--'e merely wishes to speak
to you for a moment."

"Oh! bid 'em come in, bid 'em come in," said Mrs Twitter in the
exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly
regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.

Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the
intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on
their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of
Sam.

"Come in, and welcome, _do_," said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose
face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that
time. "And Miss Diana, too! I'm _so_ glad you've brought her. Sit
down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain't much room
anywhere else, but--get out of the way, Stickler."

The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated
with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for
its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have
bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled "barrow-knighted,"
he would have lain down and let it walk over him--perhaps would even
have solicited a passing