The man gazed at her for a minute or two, taking in the question gradually; he then raised his trembling hand to either side his face--feeling for the whiskers that were no longer there. "A nice pot o' mischief _you_'ve been a getting into!" cried sharp Molly. "Is that your own coat? What's gone of the sleeves?" For, now that the coat could be seen closely, it turned out that its sleeves had been cut out, leaving the bare white shirt-sleeves underneath. Roper looked first at one arm, then at the other. "What part of Ameriky be you bound for, and when do the ship sail?" pursued sarcastic Molly. The man opened his mouth and closed it again; like a born natural, as Molly put it. Grizzel suddenly clung to him with a sobbing cry. "He is ill, Molly; he's ill. He has had some trick played on him. George, what be it?" But still George Roper only gazed about him as if too stupid to understand. In short, the man _was_ stupid. That is, he had been stupefied, and as yet was only partially recovering its effects. He remembered going into the barber's shop on Saturday night to have his hair cut, after leaving his bundle of clothes at the tailor's. Some ale was served round at the barber's, and he, Roper, took a glass. After that he remembered nothing: all was blank, until he woke up an hour ago in the unused shed at the back of the blacksmith's shop. That the ale had been badly drugged, was evident. The question arose--who had played the trick? In a day or two, when Roper had recovered, an inquiry was set on foot: but nothing came of it. The barber testified that Roper seemed sleepy after the ale, and a joke went round that he must have been drinking some previously. He went out of the shop without having his hair cut, with several more men--and that was all the barber knew. Of course Sandy Lett was suspected. People said he had done it in hope to get himself substituted as bridegroom. Lett, however, vowed through thick and thin that he was innocent; and nothing was traced home to him. Neither was the handwriting of the note. They were married on the Thursday. Grizzel was too glad to get him back unharmed to make bones about the shorn whiskers. No difficulty was made about opening the church on a week-day. Clerk Bumford grumbled at it, but the parson put him down. And the blackberry pie served still for the wedding-dinner. XVII. BREAKING DOWN. "Have him here a bit." "Oh! But would you like it?" "Like it?" retorted the Squire. "I know this: if I were a hard-worked London clerk, ill for want of change and rest, and I had friends living in a nice part of the country, I should feel it uncommonly hard if they did not invite me." "I'm sure it is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Todhetley. "Write at once and ask him," said the Squire.