Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her husband resumed his efforts until the door-knob, unused to such treatment, came off in his hand. A sudden scrambling noise on the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he had not pulled it off intentionally. She stood for a few moments, considering. It was a stout door and opened inwards. She took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen and, walking softly to the street-door, set off to lay the case before a brother who lived a few doors away. “Poor old Bill,” said Mr. Cooper, when she had finished. “Still, it might be worse; he's got the barrel o' beer with him.” “It's not Bill,” said Mrs. Simpson. Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and looked at his wife. “She ought to know,” said the latter. “We'll come and have a look at him,” said Mr. Cooper. Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him dubiously. “Come in and have a bit of supper,” she said at last. “There's a nice piece of beef and pickles.” “And Bill—I mean the stranger—sitting on the beer-barrel,” said Mr. Cooper, gloomily. “You can bring your beer with you,” said his sister, sharply. “Come along.” Mr. Cooper grinned, and, placing a couple of bottles in his coat pockets, followed the two ladies to the house. Seated at the kitchen table, he grinned again, as a persistent drumming took place on the cellar door. His wife smiled, and a faint, sour attempt in the same direction appeared on the face of Mrs. Simpson. “Open the door!” bellowed an indignant voice. “Open the door!” Mrs. Simpson, commanding silence with an uplifted finger, proceeded to carve the beef. A rattle of knives and forks succeeded. “O—pen—the—door!” said the voice again. “Not so much noise,” commanded Mr. Cooper. “I can't hear myself eat.” “Bob!” said the voice, in relieved accents, “Bob! Come and let me out.” Mr. Cooper, putting a huge hand over his mouth, struggled nobly with his feelings. “Who are you calling 'Bob'?” he demanded, in an unsteady voice. “You keep yourself to yourself. I've heard all about you. You've got to stay there till my brother-in-law comes home.” “It's me, Bob,” said Mr. Simpson—“Bill.” “Yes, I dare say,” said Mr. Cooper; “but if you're Bill, why haven't you got Bill's voice?” “Let me out and look at me,” said Mr. Simpson. There was a faint scream from both ladies, followed by protests. “Don't be alarmed,” said Mr. Cooper, reassuringly. “I wasn't born yesterday. I don't want to get a crack over the head.” “It's all a mistake, Bob,” said the prisoner, appealingly. “I just had a shave and a haircut and—and a little hair-dye. If you open the door you'll know me at once.” “How would it be,” said Mr. Cooper, turning to his sister, and speaking with unusual distinctness—“how would it be if you opened the door, and just as he put his head out I hit it a crack with the poker?” “You try it on,” said the voice behind the door, hotly. “You know who I am well enough, Bob Cooper. I don't want any more of your nonsense. Milly has put you up to this!”