“Nobody nearer than Colonel Bowles, and Ted was saying yesterday that he was gone from home. No, Bill, for all I can see, there’s not a soul to move a finger, unless ’tis you and me.” “But what can us do? I can’t see no call for us to meddle if policemen won’t. Enough to do with my own kids, sister ’Liza, and nobody but me to help ’em. Well, I must be jogging.” “No you won’t be jogging, and you’ve got to see Wisk. Where’s your common sense, Bill? Can’t you see that he’ll stick a shilling on to everything, if they send down here to fetch him for you. No man can abide to be disturbed with his glass, and he expects a lot of money if he gives it up. That’s the way all those ranters thrive; their beer would cost three halfpence, and they gets sixpence for not having it, and has it on the sly in their own beds. Go and see old Wisk, but not a word of what I told you. Only you must come back to me when you have done what you want with him. No business of mine any more than yourn, and perhaps the best way to let things go by law, and not be called up and lose your time, and have to pay for it, and think yourself lucky if they don’t fine you too. That is all one gets for not winking at a thief, Bill.” The truth of this was too manifest to require any acknowledgment; and Tompkins went to see Mr. Wisk in the taproom, and after much discussion drove him to his premises, there to see and deal about the wicker stuff. But he only got half a gross of Sallies, which proved a very lucky thing afterwards, for Wisk had no more, or at any rate said so, not liking the price perhaps, for they were good substantial stuff, which also proved a happy thing before very long. Then Selsey Bill touched _Spanker_ up, for it was getting on for dark; but he did not like to pass the _Crooked Billet_ without calling, because he was proud of being a man of his word. CHAPTER XXXI. THE GIANT OF THE HEATH. THERE is, or at least there used to be, along the back of Hounslow Heath, a lane, which leaves the great Western road on the right-hand side, and goes off alone. The soil is very poor and thin, and nothing seems to flourish much except the hardier forms of fir, and the vagrant manner of mankind. The winter winds and the summer drought sweep over or cranny into it; and a very observant man is needed to find much to talk about. But wherever a man or woman is, and whatever may be the season, one earnest cry arises in the bosom, and it is for beer. Those nobler beings who oust their British nature with foreign luxury, and learn to make belief of joy in the sour grape or the stringent still, are apt to forget, as perverts do, the solidity of the ancient creed. If a good or evil genius had stood by Sir Cumberleigh Hotchpot, or even Downy Bulwrag, and whispered, “Have a firkin there of treble X, or Indian Pale,” there might be now no chance for Bill to tell the things he had to tell.