Eastward was the wise man's course, a road dipping between hedges to a hop garden and a wood and presently no doubt reaching an inn, a picturesque church, perhaps, a village and fresh company. The wise man's course. Mr. Polly saw himself going along it, and tried to see himself going along it with all the self-applause a wise man feels. But somehow it wouldn't come like that. The wise man fell short of happiness for all his wisdom. The wise man had a paunch and round shoulders and red ears and excuses. It was a pleasant road, and why the wise man should not go along it merry and singing, full of summer happiness, was a miracle to Mr. Polly's mind, but confound it! the fact remained, the figure went slinking--slinking was the only word for it--and would not go otherwise than slinking. He turned his eyes westward as if for an explanation, and if the figure was no longer ignoble, the prospect was appalling. "One kick in the stummick would settle a chap like me," said Mr. Polly. "Oh, God!" cried Mr. Polly, and lifted his eyes to heaven, and said for the last time in that struggle, "It isn't my affair!" And so saying he turned his face towards the Potwell Inn. He went back neither halting nor hastening in his pace after this last decision, but with a mind feverishly busy. "If I get killed, I get killed, and if he gets killed I get hung. Don't seem just somehow. "Don't suppose I shall _frighten_ him off." VIII The private war between Mr. Polly and Uncle Jim for the possession of the Potwell Inn fell naturally into three chief campaigns. There was first of all the great campaign which ended in the triumphant eviction of Uncle Jim from the inn premises, there came next after a brief interval the futile invasions of the premises by Uncle Jim that culminated in the Battle of the Dead Eel, and after some months of involuntary truce there was the last supreme conflict of the Night Surprise. Each of these campaigns merits a section to itself. Mr. Polly re-entered the inn discreetly. He found the plump woman seated in her bar, her eyes a-stare, her face white and wet with tears. "O God!" she was saying over and over again. "O God!" The air was full of a spirituous reek, and on the sanded boards in front of the bar were the fragments of a broken bottle and an overturned glass. She turned her despair at the sound of his entry, and despair gave place to astonishment. "You come back!" she said. "Ra-ther," said Mr. Polly. "He's--he's mad drunk and looking for her." "Where is she?" "Locked upstairs." "Haven't you sent to the police?" "No one to send." "I'll see to it," said Mr. Polly. "Out this way?" She nodded.