The next day passed quietly, the members of the household making a great fuss of Tucker, and thereby filling him with forebodings of the worst possible nature. On the day after, when the captain, having business at a neighbouring town, left him in sole charge, his uneasiness could not be concealed. “I’m going for a walk,” said Chrissie, as he sat by himself, working out dangerous moves and the best means of checking them; “would you care to come with me, Tucker?” “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way, miss,” said the boatswain, as he reached for his hat. “I want exercise,” said Chrissie; “I’ve been cooped up long enough.” She set off at a good pace up the High Street, attended by her faithful follower, and passing through the small suburbs, struck out into the country beyond. After four miles the boatswain, who was no walker, reminded her that they had got to go back. “Plenty of time,” said Chrissie, “we have got the day before us. Isn’t it glorious? Do you see that milestone, Tucker? I’ll race you to it; come along.” She was off on the instant, with the boatswain, who suspected treachery, after her. “You CAN run,” she panted, thoughtfully, as she came in second; “we’ll have another one presently. You don’t know how good it is for you, Tucker.” The boatswain grinned sourly and looked at her from the corner of his eye. The next three miles passed like a horrible nightmare; his charge making a race for every milestone, in which the labouring boatswain, despite his want of practice, came in the winner. The fourth ended disastrously, Chrissie limping the last ten yards, and seating herself with a very woebegone face on the stone itself. “You did very well, miss,” said the boatswain, who thought he could afford to be generous. “You needn’t be offended about it.” “It’s my ankle,” said Chrissie with a little whimper. “Oh! I twisted it right round.” The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation. “It’s no use looking like that,” said Chrissie sharply, “you great clumsy thing. If you hadn’t have run so hard it wouldn’t have happened. It’s all your fault.” “If you don’t mind leaning on me a bit,” said Tucker, “we might get along.” Chrissie took his arm petulantly, and they started on their return journey, at the rate of about four hours a mile, with little cries and gasps at every other yard. “It’s no use,” said Chrissie as she relinquished his arm, and, limping to the side of the road, sat down. The boatswain pricked up his ears hopefully at the sound of approaching wheels. “What’s the matter with the young lady?” inquired a groom who was driving a little trap, as he pulled up and regarded with interest a grimace of extraordinary intensity on the young lady’s face. “Broke her ankle, I think,” said the boatswain glibly. “Which way are you going?” “Well, I’m going to Barborough,” said the groom; “but my guvnor’s rather pertickler.” “I’ll make it all right with you,” said the boatswain.