Wynyard’s progenitors had never been submerged; their names were emblazoned in history--a forebear had distinguished himself in the tilting ring, and achieved glory at Agincourt. Possibly, in days long past, the ancestors of these two men had fought side by side as knight and squire--who knows? Having disposed of his last enormous mouthful, closed his clasp-knife, and produced his pipe, Hogben threw himself back on the seat, and said-- “Look here, mate, I want a bit of a talk with ’ee.” “Talk away, Tom,” he replied, as he struck a match. “You have fifteen minutes and a clear course.” “Oh, five will do me. As fer the course, it bain’t clear, and that’s the truth. It’s like this, Jack, I’m in a mort o’ trouble along o’ Dilly Topham.” Wynyard nodded, the news had not taken him by surprise. “An’ you, being eddicated, and having seen London and life--and no doubt well experienced with young females--might give me a hand.” Wynyard nodded again--Tom was undoubtedly about to make a clean breast of it. So he lit his cigarette, and prepared to listen. “Dilly and I was children together--I’m five year older nor she--and my mother, being a widder, I had to start to work when I was ten, with a milk round--and indeed long afore--so my schoolin’ wasn’t much, as ye may know! ’Owever, Dilly and I was always goin’ to be married for fun; and she grew up a main pretty girl, and then it was agreed on in earnest. Well, now she gives me the go-by! Most days she won’t look near me, and she never comes ’ere; she’s got a gold bangle from some other chap, and when I ask about it, she gives me a regular doing, and says I’m to mind me own business! What do ye say to that? It’s the insurance fellow, I’ll go bail, from Brodfield; if I catch him--I’ll--I’ll bash ’is ’ead in--so I will--’im and ’is legs! What am I to do--I ask you as a friend?” “Well, Tom, I’m not as experienced as you suppose,” said Wynyard, after a thoughtful pause, “but, if I were in your shoes, I’ll tell you just exactly my plan of operations.” “Ay, let’s have ’em right away.” “First of all I’d have my hair cut, and trim myself about a bit.” “What! an old blossom like me?” “Yes; shave that fringe of yours altogether, and wear your hair like mine,” running his hand over his cropped head. “I declare, I could not live with a mop like yours! And you may not know it, Tom, but you are an awfully good-looking fellow.” “Eh--am I?” with slow complacency. “They do say so of Ottinge folk; they are mostly of fine old blood, come down in the world--and the only thing that’s stuck is the features--especially the nose.” “I can’t tell you anything about that, but I’m certain of one thing--you must give up whisky.” “Ay”--reddening--“must I so?” “Don’t let it get a hold, or it may never leave you.”