The apprentice was divided in his purpose. And then suddenly Uncle Jim collapsed and became a limp, dead seeming thing under their hands. His arms were drawn inward, his legs bent up under his person, and so he lay. "Fainted!" said the man in checks, relaxing his grip. "A fit, perhaps," said the man in spectacles. "Keep hold!" said Mr. Polly, too late. For suddenly Uncle Jim's arms and legs flew out like springs released. Mr. Polly was tumbled backwards and fell over the broken teapot and into the arms of the father in mourning. Something struck his head--dazzingly. In another second Uncle Jim was on his feet and the tablecloth enshrouded the head of the man in checks. Uncle Jim manifestly considered he had done all that honour required of him, and against overwhelming numbers and the possibility of reiterated duckings, flight is no disgrace. Uncle Jim fled. Mr. Polly sat up after an interval of an indeterminate length among the ruins of an idyllic afternoon. Quite a lot of things seemed scattered and broken, but it was difficult to grasp it all at once. He stared between the legs of people. He became aware of a voice, speaking slowly and complainingly. "Someone ought to pay for those tea things," said the father in mourning. "We didn't bring them 'ere to be danced on, not by no manner of means." X There followed an anxious peace for three days, and then a rough man in a blue jersey, in the intervals of trying to choke himself with bread and cheese and pickled onions, broke out abruptly into information. "Jim's lagged again, Missus," he said. "What!" said the landlady. "Our Jim?" "Your Jim," said the man, and after an absolutely necessary pause for swallowing, added: "Stealin' a 'atchet." He did not speak for some moments, and then he replied to Mr. Polly's enquiries: "Yes, a 'atchet. Down Lammam way--night before last." "What'd 'e steal a 'atchet for?" asked the plump woman. "'E said 'e wanted a 'atchet." "I wonder what he wanted a hatchet for?" said Mr. Polly, thoughtfully. "I dessay 'e 'ad a use for it," said the gentleman in the blue jersey, and he took a mouthful that amounted to conversational suicide. There was a prolonged pause in the little bar, and Mr. Polly did some rapid thinking. He went to the window and whistled. "I shall stick it," he whispered at last. "'Atchets or no 'atchets." He turned to the man with the blue jersey when he thought him clear for speech again. "How much did you say they'd given him?" he asked. "Three munce," said the man in the blue jersey, and refilled anxiously, as if alarmed at the momentary clearness of his voice. XI