“If you’re so partikler you can make it up to him,” he said, slowly. “You’ve been a saving man, I know, and Emma ’ad a bit left her that I ought to have ’ad. When you’ve done play-acting I’ll go to bed. So long!” He got up, yawning, and walked to the door, and Mr. Spriggs, after a momentary idea of breaking him in pieces and throwing him out into the street, blew out the lamp and went upstairs to discuss the matter with his wife until morning. Mr. Spriggs left for his work next day with the question still undecided, but a pretty strong conviction that Mr. Price would have to have his way. The wedding was only five days off, and the house was in a bustle of preparation. A certain gloom which he could not shake off he attributed to a raging toothache, turning a deaf ear to the various remedies suggested by Uncle Gussie, and the name of an excellent dentist who had broken a tooth of Mr. Potter’s three times before extracting it. Uncle Gussie he treated with bare civility in public, and to blood-curdling threats in private. Mr. Price, ascribing the latter to the toothache, also varied his treatment to his company; prescribing whisky held in the mouth, and other agreeable remedies when there were listeners, and recommending him to fill his mouth with cold water and sit on the fire till it boiled, when they were alone. He was at his worst on Thursday morning; on Thursday afternoon he came home a bright and contented man. He hung his cap on the nail with a flourish, kissed his wife, and, in full view of the disapproving Mr. Price, executed a few clumsy steps on the hearthrug. “Come in for a fortune?” inquired the latter, eying him sourly. “No; I’ve saved one,” replied Mr. Spriggs, gayly. “I wonder I didn’t think of it myself.” “Think of what?” inquired Mr. Price. “You’ll soon know,” said Mr. Spriggs, “and you’ve only got yourself to thank for it.” Uncle Gussie sniffed suspiciously; Mrs. Spriggs pressed for particulars. “I’ve got out of the difficulty,” said her husband, drawing his chair to the tea-table. “Nobody’ll suffer but Gussie.” “Ho!” said that gentleman, sharply. “I took the day off,” said Mr. Spriggs, smiling contentedly at his wife, “and went to see a friend of mine, Bill White the policeman, and told him about Gussie.” Mr. Price stiffened in his chair. “Acting—under—his—advice,” said Mr. Spriggs, sipping his tea, “I wrote to Scotland Yard and told ’em that Augustus Price, ticket-of-leave man, was trying to obtain a hundred and ten pounds by false pretences.” Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him. “The beauty o’ that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much enjoyment, “that Gussie’ll ’ave to set out on his travels again. He’ll have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he’ll ’ave to finish his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it’ll only make it easier to find him. You’d better take the first train to Australia, Gussie.”