Mr. Stallon owned an inn as well as a fish-shop. He crossed the road to his inn yard; there he harnessed his horse to his spring cart, and he drove to Fareham for the ice. Billy’s town is a very little one, but Fareham, six miles off, is big, and Mr. Stallon got the ice. I’m afraid that he drove furiously, and beat his horse. But he quite forgot to charge for the ice, and no one ever thanked him for getting it. He didn’t mind, he was one of Billy’s friends. The Earl was another. The Earl is young, fresh-coloured, and chubby, and somewhat lacking in dignity. He is an M.F.H. for all that, and Billy was wont to go with him to the kennels, and knew all the old hounds by name. The Earl and Billy held long conversations on the subject of poachers. Billy’s sympathies were apt to go with the poachers; but that was the fault of the Radical curate. As for the curate, he and Billy were dear friends. He would spend long sunny afternoons bowling slows, and twisters, and overhands to Billy, and he could sing such charming songs. One of Billy’s peculiarities was that he exacted songs from all his friends. Then he learnt them himself, and sang them in his turn. The curate’s favourite song was "For it’s My Delight, On a Shiny Night." It was this song that caused Billy’s predilection for poachers. The Earl could sing too. Of his répertoire the favourite was— _"She went and got married, that ’ard-’earted girl,_ _And it was not to a Wicount, and it was not to a Hearl."_ Here Billy always interrupted, exclaiming delightedly, "That’s _you_, you know!" and demanded the verse again. There was one friend from whom Billy exacted no songs. This was old Williams, the gardener. He was a very good gardener, but deaf. Billy was the only person whom he could hear well. He really had no notion of singing, that gardener. So he told Billy tales in broad Gloucestershire instead, and Billy trotted after him, assisting in all his horticultural operations, and they loved each other. But the fever had got a hold upon Billy, it was such a hot July. At last a Sunday came, when those who loved him best feared that he could not last through the day. At morning service the curate gave it out that "the prayers of the congregation, are desired for William Wargrave Ainger"; then he paused, and with a ring of supplication in his voice, which startled the listening people, said, "little Billy Ainger, whom we love—who lies grievously sick." "William Wargrave Ainger" had fallen on inattentive ears, but the familiar name struck home, and the congregation prayed. In the pause which followed the words "especially those for whom our prayers are desired," the deaf gardener’s voice was heard to say "Amen"; but no one smiled at him that Sunday. The Earl had no surplice to take off, so he reached Billy’s house first; but the curate caught him at the drive gate, for the curate ran.