When the "professor gen’leman" engaged his gardener, that worthy explained that he "didn’t want no reg’lar ’alf-’oliday," but that during the cricket season he would like an occasional afternoon off, as he was an enthusiastic admirer of the national game. On the autocrat’s fourth birthday the old gardener presented him with a tiny cricket-bat, and during the summer months gardening was varied by batting practice. Williams was too old and too stiff to bat or run himself; but he bowled to the little boy with a tennis-ball, and gave him gentle catches, and these proceedings delighted Billy as much as they interfered with Williams’s proper business. When the Fifth of November came, he made what Billy called a "most ’normous Guy Fawkes"—a real Guy Fawkes, stuffed with straw, and clad in a cast-off coat and trousers of Williams’s own, with a mask for a face, the whole crowned by a venerable top-hat. It says much for the depth and sincerity of Williams’s affection for the autocrat that he should have thus sacrificed a hat still bearing the smallest outward semblance of such head-gear. For Williams himself never wore any other shape. Winter or summer, his large bald head was protected from rain or sun by a wide-brimmed and generally seedy tall felt hat. On Sundays it was a silk one, carefully brushed, but decidedly smudgy as regarded outline. All the children in the adjacent cottages were bidden to see the guy, as Williams proudly cast it upon a large bonfire that he had been saving for the occasion for many weeks. The professor gentleman let off rockets, and even Billy himself was permitted to fire off several squibs. It was altogether a great occasion, and was regarded in the autocrat’s family as a sort of apotheosis of Williams, for shortly afterwards he fell ill, and grew worse so rapidly that he was removed to the cottage hospital in the town. His cottage was very small, and his wife very old, and the doctor is a man who has the very greatest objection to letting people die for lack of proper care and attention. His gentle old wife crept down the hill every day to see him, but her accounts were far from cheering. "’E be that deaf ’e can’t yer what they do say, and ’e be that weak and low nothin’ don’t seem to rouse ’im." So Billy’s father went down to the hospital to see Williams, and found him lying, gaunt and ashen-coloured and still, in the straight white bed. The ward was clean and sunny and comfortable, but Williams did not seem to mend. "He seems to have lost heart," said the cheery matron; "he’s not so very old, or so very ill, but that he might get round, but his deafness is against him, and if he isn’t roused he’ll slip away simply because he doesn’t care to stop." Billy’s father leant over the bed and laid his hand on the gnarled work-worn hand lying outside the white coverlet. Williams opened his eyes and stared languidly at his master. Presently there lighted in the tired old eyes a gleam of recognition.