The ostler stood in the twilight and smiled. The sulky fellows put aside evil desire and came and gripped the great hand that made their knuckles creak. Then he sang them old-world _Ruddier than the Cherry_ whilst their women led their cockney loves aside to the dark shadows under the trees and furtively comforted them. It all struck the small Betty that it was an indecent sight. Yet there was a thrill of contentment in her heart that it should have fallen to the man who could sing _Nazareth_ like a god to do the blood-letting. On the days when it rained, the little party, Betty and Noll and Netherby, would sit in the small parlour of the inn where Nelson and his Emma had spent those pitiful hours many years ago, the night before the great Admiral posted to the sea-coast to hoist his flag aboard the _Victory_, being at the beginning of that journey that ended in his splendid death at the triumph of Trafalgar--his frail Emma going from the little room, a broken woman, to Neglect, and Worse.... So the happy days went by, until the hour struck for departure. The good hostess kissed Betty on the doorstep, the dainty little lady being dressed for travel--and had to go indoors for the tears that would run, fleeing from the distress of further good-byes. The glorious sun found them at last, with their pathetically small packages, at the little railway-station, the prize-fighting ostler carrying Miss Betty’s little bag, and hovering about the party, a drag at the corners of his mouth. He was sadly lacking as to his wonted tuneful gaiety. As the train came in he found an empty carriage for them. Betty, stepping forward, held out a dainty hand. The ostler took it, and, stooping down, stroked it between his mighty palms: “Look ye here, Miss Betty,” said he--“you’ll be a great lady some day--I haven’t been chucked out of a markiss’s stables without spottin’ the breed when I see it--but it may likely enough take some nasty days getting there.... Now, missee, if you ever wants anythink in my line of business,” he added significantly, “this address will always find me--it’s where my old mother lives. And if so be that you ever wants physical assistance, jest you go to the nearest telegraph-office. You’ve only got to say the word, and wheresoever it be in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland or the parts lying adjacent thereto, Sim Crittenden will spoil the handsomest face the Lord ever made--so help me God!” He took off his hat and held it in his hand, and they each in turn shook his great fist. He blew his nose strenuously as the train moved out of the station, Betty, where she sat in the window, biting her handkerchief, the tears streaming down the child’s face. The prize-fighting ostler sang no song for several days. CHAPTER XIII _Which contains Some Hints towards the Making of a Baronet_