"You're just in time, sir," he said. "Only look here," and he tapped the paper over and over again. "Isn't it a game? Five years' penal. Came out after his twelvemonth for your job, and then got in for it again. I always said he must come to it. `Don't you make no mistake, Jack Screwby,' I says, `you'll be dropped on hotter yet some day; mark my words if you won't.' For, you see, as soon as he was out, he used to come worrying and cheeking me again. `It'll come to you, my lad, see if it won't.' And now there it all is down in black and white: `Violent assault and 'tempt to murder.' Lots o' that sort o' thing about here, bless you! And I could take you out here of an evening, and point you out half a hundred o' birds o' that sort as want the same kind o' salt put on their tails. But there! Jack Screwby's gone, and we shan't see no more of him for five years certain." "And how is Mrs Winks?" said Harry. "There ain't no such person living here at all now, sir," said D. Wragg, pulling up his collars, and speaking with dignity. "Don't you make no mistake, sir. Mrs Winks is no more; and busy as a bee has she been this very week, marking all her linen over again in big letters--W, r, a, g, g--though I kep' on telling her--such is the beautiful, clean, tidy, mending natur' of that woman--as there wasn't a rag among 'em." "What! married?" ejaculated Harry, with real surprise. "Married it is, sir. Don't you make no mistake. We both found the place awful lonely as soon as our lodgers had gone; and what with the theayter getting unpleasant on account of Mrs Winks being stouter than she used to, and people's knees getting a deed in her way when she went round with her basket, and me having so much natur' in hand to attend to, we agreed between ourselves as she should give the theayter up, and take a share in this here business, sir, and all under one name, sir." "And a very wise act too," said Harry, smiling. "Twenty years did I know her, sir, before I made the venter; and I don't mind tellin' you, sir, as is a gent I respex, if Mrs D. Wragg wasn't quite so stout, she'd be an angel. But there, sir, don't you make no mistake. I'm as happy as the day's long; and talk about people's pussonal appearance! why, look at me!" In his modest self-disparagement, D. Wragg again became quite mechanical in his fits and starts, ending by crumpling up the newspaper, and sweeping an empty cage from the counter with his turnip-sowing arm. "Looks are nothing, Mr Wragg, if the heart is right," said Harry, smiling; "but I must be going. I thought I would look in as I passed."