“That’s all, watchman,” ses the skipper; “and I ’ope it’ll be a lesson to you not to neglect your dooty by going into public-’ouses and taking charge of other people’s money when you ain’t fit for it.” “I sha’n’t try to do anybody else a kindness agin, if that’s wot you mean,” I ses, looking at ’im. “No, you’d better not,” he ses. “This partickler bit o’ kindness ’as cost you four pounds fifteen, and that’s a curious thing when you come to think of it. Very curious.” “Wot d’ye mean?” I ses. “Why,” he ses, grinning like a madman, “it’s just wot we lost between us. I lost a watch and chain worth two pounds, and another couple o’ pounds besides; Joe lost ten shillings over ’is di’mond ring; and Charlie lost five bob over a pipe. ‘That’s four pounds fifteen—just the same as you.” Them silly fools stood there choking and sobbing and patting each other on the back as though they’d never leave off, and all of a sudden I ’ad a ’orrible suspicion that I ’ad been done. “Did you see the sovereigns in the box?” I ses, turning to the skipper. “No,” he ses, shaking his ’ead. “’Ow do you know they was there, then?” ses I. “Because you took charge of ’em,” said the skipper; “and I know wot a clever, sharp chap you are. It stands to reason that you wouldn’t be responsible for a box like that unless you saw inside of it. Why, a child o’ five wouldn’t!” I stood there looking at ’im, but he couldn’t meet my eye. None of ’em could; and arter waiting there for a minute or two to give ’em a chance, I turned my back on ’em and went off to my dooty. MADE TO MEASURE Mr. Mott brought his niece home from the station with considerable pride. Although he had received a photograph to assist identification, he had been very dubious about accosting the pretty, well-dressed girl who had stepped from the train and gazed around with dove-like eyes in search of him. Now he was comfortably conscious of the admiring gaze of his younger fellow-townsmen. “You’ll find it a bit dull after London, I expect,” he remarked, as he inserted his key in the door of a small house in a quiet street. “I’m tired of London,” said Miss Garland. “I think this is a beautiful little old town—so peaceful.” Mr. Mott looked gratified. “I hope you’ll stay a long time,” he said, as he led the way into the small front room. “I’m a lonely old man.” His niece sank into an easy chair, and looked about her. “Thank you,” she said, slowly. “I hope I shall. I feel better already. There is so much to upset one in London.” “Noise?” queried Mr. Mott. “And other things,” said Miss Garland, with a slight shudder. Mr. Mott sighed in sympathy with the unknown, and, judging by his niece’s expression, the unknowable. He rearranged the teacups, and, going to the kitchen, returned in a few minutes with a pot of tea. “Mrs. Pett leaves at three,” he said, in explanation, “to look after her children, but she comes back again at eight to look after my supper. And how is your mother?”