No sooner was I in the other room with the closed door between us than I whipped out the cork from the paraffin can, and seizing a siphon of soda-water that stood upon the table--it was the only liquid handy--I slipped the spout into the mouth of the can and pressed the tap. “If this isn’t pouring oil on the troubled waters it’s at least pouring troubled waters on the oil,” I said to myself, when half a tumbler of soda had hissed into the can. “There’ll be some rosy language about when Hughes goes to light his lamp after filling it up with this stuff, for he’ll never get it to light, much less to burn. And if he doesn’t make the discovery too early the man who looks after his requirements will be gone, and Master Hughes will have to sit in the dark and go to bed with his supper uncooked, or come into Canvey and get some more oil. He _may_, of course, get filling up his cooking stove in the daytime, and find the oil won’t burn, or he may have enough left in it to carry him through. But anyhow, if the thing doesn’t work out as I hope, there will be no harm done, for at the worst they can only suppose that some water has accidentally got into the can.” The thing _did_ work out as I had hoped, however, for as night was beginning to close in I saw Hughes unlashing the dinghy as if to come ashore, and judging from the sounds which broke the evening stillness I had reason to believe that he was at his old habit of swearing aloud to himself. This is a habit which is more soothing to the swearer than to an enforced listener, especially when the swearer is rowing a heavy boat against the tide, and jerks out a fresh and aggressively emphasised oath with each expulsion of breath. On this occasion the hopes which were expressed about the soul, eyes, limbs, and internal organs of every one who had been connected with the offending oil, beginning with the individual who “struck” it, and finishing off with the shopkeeper who sold it, and the man who brought it to the hulks, were distinctly uncharitable. Nor did Hughes confine himself to human beings, for the unfortunate can in which the oil had been carried and the various matches which had been struck in his unavailing efforts to light the lamp were with strict impartiality similarly banned. “Oil!” he growled as he ran the boat ashore. “I’ll oil ’im and the man wot sold it too!” (More hopes in regard to the soul, eyes, limbs, and internal organs of the offender.) “A pretty fine fool ’e made o’ me, standin’ there burnin’ my fingers and a box of matches trying to find out what was wrong. Oil! Call that splutterin’ stuff oil! Why, I might as well ’ave tried to set fire to the river.” Still swearing, he made fast the dinghy and proceeded, can in hand, in the direction of the village. After a time I started to follow, and overtook him just as he was passing my cottage. “Good-night,” I called out over my shoulder in passing, as is the custom in the country.