The incensed skipper made no reply, but, passing upstairs, turned the bed-room topsy-turvy in a wild search for his property. It was unsuccessful, and he came down with a look in his face which made his respected host get close to his wife. “Are you going to give me my money?” demanded he, striding up to him. “I’ve not got your money,” snarled the other, “I’m an honest man.” He started back in alarm, and his wife gave a faint scream as Flower caught him by the collar, and, holding him against the wall, went through his pockets. “Don’t hurt him,” cried the old woman; “he’s only a little old man.” “If you were younger and bigger,” said the infuriated skipper, as he gave up the fruitless search, “I’d thrash you till you gave it up.” “I’m an honest man,” said the other, recovering himself as he saw that his adversary intended no violence; “if you think I’ve stole your money, you know what you can do.” “What?” demanded Flower. “Go to the police,” said the old man, his little slit of a mouth twisted into a baleful grin; “if you think I’ve stole your money, go and tell the police.” “Let ’em come and search the house,” said the old woman, plucking up spirit. “I’ve been married forty-two years and ’ad seven children. Go and fetch the police.” Flower stared at them in wrathful concern. Threats were of no use, and violence was out of the question. He went to the door, and leaning against it, stood there deep in thought until, after a time, the old woman, taking courage from his silence, began to prepare breakfast. Then he turned, and drawing his chair up to the table, ate silently. He preserved this silence all day despite the occasional suggestion of the old man that he should go for the police, and the aggrieved refrain of the old woman as to the length of her married life and the number of her offspring. He left at night without a word. The old man smiled almost amiably to see him go; and the old woman, who had been in a state of nervous trepidation all day, glanced at her husband with a look in which wifely devotion and admiration were almost equally blended. Flower passed slowly through the wood, and after pausing to make sure that he was not followed, struck across the fields, and, with his sailor’s knowledge of the stars, steered by them in the direction of London. He walked all that night unmolested, his foot giving him but little trouble, and passed the following day under a haystack, assuaging his hunger with some bread and cheese he had put in his pocket. Travelling by night and sleeping in secluded spots by day, he reached the city in three days. Considering that he had no money, and was afraid to go into a town to pawn his watch, he did not suffer so much from hunger as might have been expected—something which he vaguely referred to as Providence, but for which the sufferers found other terms, twice leading his faltering footsteps to labourers’ dinners in tin cans and red handkerchiefs.