Half an hour later, as Captain Branscome, washed, brushed, and freshly shaven, descended to the breakfast-parlour, Miss Belcher entered the house by the back door, with her hat full of new-laid eggs. "Nothing like a raw egg to start the day upon," she announced. "I suck 'em, for my part; but some prefer 'em beaten up in a dish of tea." She suited the action to the word, and beat up one in the Captain's teacup while Plinny carved him a slice of ham. "Ladies," he protested, "I am ashamed. I do not deserve this hospitality. If you would allow me first to tell my story!" "_You're_ all right," said Miss Belcher. "Couldn't hurt a fly, if you wanted to. There! Eat up your breakfast, and then you can tell us all about it." The two ladies had, each in her way, a knack of making her meaning clear without subservience to the strict forms of speech. "It will be a weight off one's mind," declared Plinny, "even if it should prove to be the last straw." "There's one thing to be thankful for," chimed in Miss Belcher, "and that is, Jack Rogers has gone to St. Mawes. When there's serious business to be discussed I always thank a Providence that clears the men out of the way." I glanced at Captain Branscome. Assuredly he had come with no intention at all of unbosoming himself before a couple of ladies. He desired--desired desperately, I felt sure--to confide in me alone. But Miss Belcher's off-handish air of authority completely nonplussed him; he sat helplessly fidgeting with his breakfast-plate. "To tell you the truth, ladies," he began, "I had not expected this-- this audience. It finds me, in a manner of speaking, unprepared." He ran a finger around the edge of his saucer after the manner of one performing on the musical glasses, and threw a hunted glance at the window, as though for a way of escape. "My name, ladies, is Branscome. I was once well-to-do, and commanded a packet in the service of his Majesty's Postmasters-General. But times have altered with me, and I am now an usher in a school, and a very poor man." He paused; looked up at Miss Belcher, who had squared her elbows on the table in very unladylike fashion; and cleared his throat before proceeding-- "You will excuse me for mentioning this, but it is an essential part of my story." "The Stimcoes," suggested Miss Belcher, "didn't pay up--eh?" "Mr. Stimcoe--though a scholar, ma'am--has suffered from time to time from pecuniary embarrassment." "--Traceable to drink," interpolated Miss Belcher, with a nod towards Plinny. "No, sir; you need not look at Harry: _he_ has told us nothing. I formed my own conclusions."