Ocky knocked the ashes out of his pipe, waiting for the bowl to cool before he filled it. “I hadn't an idea that they had so little. It's come home to me gradually--the worn carpets and old things everywhere. And here have I been eating my head off. We'll have to pay 'em back, Peter--have to pay 'em back.” Peter had reason to be sceptical about the paying back; he applauded the intention. Except in imagination, his uncle had never been much of a money-maker. He had always been unemployable; he was ten times more unemployable now with a prison record. Peter spoke to his father, with the result that a position was offered as packer in a publisher's establishment. Ocky refused it. “Got something better.” The “something better” was at last divulged. One afternoon Peter found his uncle up the apple-tree, trying to balance a box in its branches. In the box was scattered the kind of food best calculated to tempt the appetite of a parrot. The box had a flap-door leading into it, propped open by a stick from which a string dangled. If an ill-natured bird were to enter the box and a lady beneath the tree were to pull on the string, thus dragging away the stick, the door would shut and the ill-natured bird would be a captive. Gathered under the tree were the four Misses Jacobite, looking very weepy and calling up warnings to their guest, please not to fall and to be careful. Peter knew what it meant--these were the last offices of gratitude which preceded departure. When the adventurous gentleman had clambered down, it was seen that he wore his shabby spats and that his mustaches were pointed with wax. He led Peter aside and winked at him solemnly. It was the return from Elba; after exile, he was going forth to conquer the world afresh. “Well?” said Peter. “Well?” said Ocky. “Leaving?” asked Peter. “'S'afternoon,” said Ocky. Then, after a silence, which heightened the suspense, came the revelation. “There's a fellow, I know, a Mr. Widow--we were in the coop together. A nice fellow! He oughtn't to have been there. Seems he was in the second-hand business and dressed like a parson to inspire confidence. Well, his wife was a gadabout woman and always jeering at him. One day, quite quietly, in a necessary sort of manner, without losing his temper, so he told me, he up and clumped her over the head. He went out to a sale, never thinking he'd done any more than was his duty; when he came back she was dead. He's a nice, kind sort of chap, is Jimmie Widow, and religious. Not a bit like a murderer. If you didn't start with a prejudice, you'd like him, Peter. I met him a fortnight ago. He's opened a little place in Soho and wants me to join him. I'm to mind shop while he's out. There's heaps of money to be made in the second-hand business. You see, I'll surprise you all and die a rich man yet.” “Oh, yes,” said Peter, “I--I hope so.”