“Found a way out four gardens down--the wall's lower. No danger of breaking one's legs--not like the way you brought me.” Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel. “But to-morrow they'll see that somebody's been there. They'll follow your tracks from garden to garden and then------” “I don't care. Let 'em. You'd never do anything I ask you. You wouldn't let me see Jehane and Glory. They're my flesh and blood; and who are you? You wouldn't give me any baccy. You gave me nothing. Buried me alive, that's what you did for me. So I just slipped off by myself.” It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his pocket, drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his mouth. “Must have my medicine. Ah!” Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of temper. “You've done this before?” “Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I'll do it again as soon as I get thirsty. It's cold up there.” He jerked his thumb toward the loft. “Has it ever struck you?” Peter disregarded the question. “You did it with my money--the money that was to help you.” “And isn't it helping me?” Another long draught. “Ah! That's better!--You gave it me to take care of--I'm taking care of it. See? You ought to know by now that I'm not to be trusted.” Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle to scramble into the loft. “We'll be lucky if you're not caught by morning.” “Think so? What's the odds? Couldn't be worse off. Now shut up scolding; you're as bad as Jehane. Let's be social. Did I ever tell you that story about the chap whose wife had black hair?” “Yes, you did. I know now that you'd been drinking every time you told it.” “Hic! Really! Awright, you needn't get huffy. It's a good story.” Peter had at last hit on a plan. “Will you promise to stop here to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?” “Now you're talking. Reg'lar ha'penny marvel, that's what you are. Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?” He spoke with the _hauteur_ of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles Esquire, capitalist, who wasn't to be beaten at a bargain. “Well, it'll probably be in a family.” “Depends on the family.” “Then promise me you won't go out again to-night.” “Shan't be able when I've polished off this bottle.” Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he went he said, “It's my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was for you.” Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity better in a sitting posture. “Don't take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and forget--that's my motto.” He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his fingers.