"You see, Mr. Wheels," he murmurs, at intervals, "when a man's--a pointsman--(my little darling!)--and has to be at it--fourteen and sixteen and eighteen--hours a day--he ain't accountable--for hisself. The company says--he is--and the public says--he is; but I'm--a pointsman--and I know--better. (Don't I, Pollypod!) I've been on duty--now--since five o'clock--this morning--and I'm dead--beat. (Dead--beat, Pollypod!) What'd the public--say to that--if they knew it? I'm dead--beat--and I ain't accountable--for myself. (Am I, my pretty?) I wish the public--and the company--'d try it theirselves,--for a month. (To-morrow's Sunday, Pollypod, thanks be!) Last week--there was a--a accident--on our line--you saw it--in the papers. One woman--was killed--and others was--shook. The papers had articles on it--and the pointsman--who was dead--beat--was took in custody--and the coroner--said--said----" But what the coroner said is not repeated on the present occasion, for Mr. Podmore falls into utter unconsciousness, and being undoubtedly as dead-beat as it is in the power of mortal to be, sleeps the deepest of deep sleeps. While the faithful dog, cozily coiled up on the bed, blinks and blinks at the candle, in a state of uncertainty as to whether a lurid star which gleams in the long dull wick is friend or foe. CHAPTER II. IN WHICH DRIBBLE JUNIOR DISCOURSES ON CO-OPERATION. The old man, leaving Mr. Podmore in paradise, walked slowly down-stairs, and paused before a door on the second landing, on which was inscribed--again in yellow round-hand on a blue ground: "Umbrella and Parasol Hospital. Knock and enter." After a slight hesitation, he knocked and entered. J. Gribble junior was hard at work mending ribs and bones, and speedily recovering frames on moderate terms. Mrs. J. Gribble junior was also hard at work on silk and gingham. The heir of the house of Gribble junior was asleep in a corner under an umbrella tent.