“A friend o’ mine,” said Captain Walsh, favouring him with a hideous wink, “a _great_ friend o’ mine, is going to be married, and I want to give him a wedding present before I go. I sail to-morrow.” “Well, ask _him_ what he’d like,” said Trimblett, making another ineffectual attempt to escape. “Don’t bother me.” “I can’t do that,” said Walsh, with another wink; “it’s awkward; besides which, his modesty would probably make him swear that he wasn’t going to be married at all. In fact, he has told me that already. I want you to choose for him. Tell me what _you’d_ like, and no doubt it’ll please him. What do you say to that cruet-stand?” “D——m the cruet-stand!” said Trimblett, wiping his hot face. “All right,” said the unmoved Walsh, with his arm firmly linked in that of his friend. “What about a toast-rack? That one!” “I don’t believe in wedding-presents,” said Trimblett, thickly. “Never did. I think it’s an absurd custom. And if your friend says he isn’t going to be married, surely he ought to know.” “Shyness,” rejoined Captain Walsh—“pure shyness. He’s one of the best. I know his idea. His idea is to be married on the quiet and without any fuss. But it isn’t coming off. No, sir. Now, suppose it was you—don’t be violent; I only said suppose—how would that pickle-jar strike you?” “I know nothing about it,” said Captain Trimblett, raising his voice. “Besides, I can’t take the responsibility of choosing for another man. I told you so before.” Captain Walsh paid no heed. His glance roved over the contents of the window. “Trimblett’s a terror,” he said in a serene voice, turning to Hartley. “I don’t know what it’s like walking down the High Street looking into shop-windows with a fretful porcupine; but I can make a pretty good guess.” “You should leave me alone, then,” said Trimblett, wrenching his arm free. “Wedding-presents have no interest for me.” “That’s what he keeps saying,” said Walsh, turning to Hartley again; “and when I referred just now—in the most delicate manner—to love’s young dream, I thought he’d ha’ bust his boilers.” As far as Hartley could see, Captain Trimblett was again within measurable distance of such a catastrophe. For a moment he struggled wildly for speech, and then, coming to the conclusion that nothing he could say would do him any good, he swung on his heel and walked off. Hartley, with a nod to Walsh, followed. “That idiot has been pestering me for the last half-hour,” said Captain Trimblett, after walking for some distance in wrathful silence. “I wonder whether it would be brought in murder if I wrung old Sellers’s neck? I’ve had four people this morning come up and talk to me about getting married. At least, they started talking.” “Turn a deaf ear,” said Hartley.