From his cushioned Windsor-chair he listened pompously to the conversation. Sometimes he joined in and took sides, and on these occasions it was a foregone conclusion that the side he espoused would win. No matter how reasonable the opponent’s argument or how gross his personalities, Mr. Ketchmaid, in his capacity of host, had one unfailing rejoinder—the man was drunk. When Mr. Ketchmaid had pronounced that opinion the argument was at an end. A nervousness about his license—conspicuous at other times by its absence—would suddenly possess him, and, opening the little wicket which gave admission to the bar, he would order the offender in scathing terms to withdraw. Twice recently had he found occasion to warn Mr. Ned Clark, the village shoemaker, the strength of whose head had been a boast in the village for many years. On the third occasion the indignant shoemaker was interrupted in the middle of an impassioned harangue on free speech and bundled into the road by the ostler. After this nobody was safe. To-night Mr. Ketchmaid, meeting his eye as he entered the bar, nodded curtly. The shoemaker had stayed away three days as a protest, and the landlord was naturally indignant at such contumacy. “Good evening, Mr. Ketchmaid,” said the shoemaker, screwing up his little black eyes; “just give me a small bottle o’ lemonade, if you please.” Mr. Clark’s cronies laughed, and Mr. Ketchmaid, after glancing at him to make sure that he was in earnest, served him in silence. “There’s one thing about lemonade,” said the shoemaker, as he sipped it gingerly; “nobody could say you was drunk, not if you drank bucketsful of it.” There was an awkward silence, broken at last by Mr. Clark smacking his lips. “Any news since I’ve been away, chaps?” he inquired; “or ’ave you just been sitting round as usual listening to the extra-ordinary adventures what happened to Mr. Ketchmaid whilst a-follering of the sea?” “Truth is stranger than fiction, Ned,” said Mr. Peter Smith, the tailor, reprovingly. The shoemaker assented. “But I never thought so till I heard some o’ the things Mr. Ketchmaid ’as been through,” he remarked. “Well, you know now,” said the landlord, shortly. “And the truthfullest of your yarns are the most wonderful of the lot, to my mind,” said Mr. Clark. “What do you mean by the truthfullest?” demanded the landlord, gripping the arms of his chair. “Why, the strangest,” grinned the shoemaker. “Ah, he’s been through a lot, Mr. Ketchmaid has,” said the tailor. “The truthfullest one to my mind,” said the shoemaker, regarding the landlord with spiteful interest, “is that one where Henry Wiggett, the boatswain’s mate, ’ad his leg bit off saving Mr. Ketchmaid from the shark, and ’is shipmate, Sam Jones, the nigger cook, was wounded saving ’im from the South Sea Highlanders.” “I never get tired o’ hearing that yarn,” said the affable Mr. Smith. “I do,” said Mr. Clark.