"Why this receipt, Joe? Ain’t a cheque a receipt?" Quinney answered curtly: "A cheque don’t show what money is paid for. My way of doin’ business." "No complaints." He chuckled fatly, raising his thick eyebrows when Quinney observed lightly: "What we done the day before yesterday was a leetle bit dangerous, old man. Sailin’ too near the reefs—um?" Tomlin replied pompously: "Skilled navigators, my lad, do sail near the reefs. I wouldn’t assume such risks with another man." "But you did!" "What do you mean, Joe?" "James Miggott is in the know." "Of course, but he’s had his little bit." "Yes; but he wants more!" "The swine!" He stared at Quinney, beholding upon the whimsical face of his pupil writing which he could not read. "What’s up?" he spluttered. "I am," said Quinney, rising; "and stripped for the fight of my life." Tomlin stirred uneasily. "A fight, Joe? Who with?" Quinney answered fiercely: "That dirty dog, James Miggott. He wants more than what we gave him. See? He wants my Posy." Tomlin exhibited marked relief. "Your Posy? Don’t blame him for wanting her." "You hold hard! Young Posy wants him." "Gawd bless my soul! She’s not the judge o’ quality he is." "And Susan backs ’em up. That fairly tears it." Tomlin looked puzzled, unable to account for the younger man’s excitement. He considered that Joe, unlike himself, was incapable of managing his womenfolk. "Between ’em, Tom, they’ve got a strangle hold on us." "Us? What have I to do with your fam’ly matters?" "I sent for you to tell you. Now, first and last, they’ll never have my consent, never! But, by thunder! I refuse my consent, not because the dog’s my servant, but because he isn’t straight. He’s no better than you and me." Tomlin glared at his former pupil, who stood over him, waving a denunciatory hand. "You speak for yourself, young man." "I ain’t young. We’re both of us old enough to know better and do better, but we’ve had to make our way. Maybe I’ve been honester than you, maybe I haven’t. I ain’t whining, least of all to you. We’re in a deep hole of our own making. And we must get out of it. I told this James Miggott last night that we was pots, just common pots, sailin’ down the stream with other pots. But my little Posy’s porcelain, the finest paste, the gem o’ my collection. Susan accuses me of caring for things, these things. So I do; so do you; that’s why we’ve struggled to the front. And this son of a gun loves things, and what they stand for. He’s after my things, but he’s clever enough to have bluffed two innercent females into believin’ that he wants my Posy without ’em." Tomlin blinked and nodded, stupefied by the terrific feeling displayed by Quinney. His headache had come back, that humiliating sense of "unfitness" which clouded his judgment, leaving him dazed and irritable. Nor, as yet, had he grasped the situation, or measured the depth of the hole to which Quinney alluded. The little man went on: