The newcomer rose also, picked up his cap, and walked to the open door. He had heard the latest news of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh, and now he intended to have a look round the village itself. “I believe I’ll take a bit of a stroll and smoke a pipe,” he said, as he put on his cap and went out. “What do you think of the new lodger, Tom?” asked his mother, as she noisily collected plates and cups. “I think--it’s hard to say yet; but I likes him. He’s not our sort, though.” “Why not? He’s had a good eddication, that’s sure, and talks up in his head like gentry, but his hands is just the hands of a working man; and look at his box--that’s no class!” In the opinion of Mrs. Hogben the box settled the question, and she went off into the scullery and closed the door with a slam of finality. CHAPTER VIII OTTINGE-IN-THE-MARSH Wynyard strolled out into the little front garden along the red brick path to the wooden gate; as he closed this, he observed that it bore in large characters the enticing name of “Holiday Cottage.” He smiled rather grimly as he looked back at his new residence, a wood and plaster construction, bowed in the upper storey, with small, insignificant windows. Then he glanced up and down the empty thoroughfare, and was struck by the deathlike silence of the place. What had become of the residents of Ottinge? A flock of soiled, white ducks waddling home in single file from the marshes, and a wall-eyed sheep-dog, were the only live objects in sight. Ottinge was undeniably ancient and picturesque, a rare field for an artist; the houses were detached--no two alike--and appeared to have been built without the smallest attempt at regularity. Some stood sideways at right angles; others had turned their backs upon the street, and overlooked the fields; many were timbered; several were entirely composed of black boarding; one or two were yellow; but the majority were of rusty brick, with tiled and moss-grown roofs. Wynyard noticed the ivy-clad house or “dogs’” hotel, with its three rows of long, prim windows, and close by another of the same class, with a heavy yew porch that recalled a great moustache. On its neat green gate was affixed a brass plate and the inscription--D. BOAS, M.D. Farther on at intervals were more houses and a few scattered shops; these looked as if they were anxious to conceal their identity, and only suffered a limited display of their wares. Chief among them was one double-fronted, with tins of pressed beef and oatmeal on view, and above the door the worthy signboard--T. HOAD, Grocer. “Quality is my Watchword.” Next came John Death, Butcher, with a wide window, over which an awning had been discreetly lowered.