The store and yard of Mr. Christopher Hucks stood at the head of the basin, within a stone's-throw of the Weigh Dock, and but two doors away from the Canal Company's office. It was approached through folding-doors, in one of which a smaller opening had been cut for pedestrians, and through this, on his way to the stables in the rear, Mr. Sam Bossom entered. He entered and halted, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, which, grimed as it was with coal grit, but further inflamed their red rims. In the centre of the yard, which had been empty when he went to work, stood a large yellow caravan; and on the steps of the caravan sat a man--a stranger--peeling potatoes over a bucket. "Hullo!" said Sam. The stranger--a long-faced man with a dead complexion, an abundance of dark hair, and a blue chin--nodded gloomily. "The surprise," he answered, "is mutual. If it comes to _that_, young man, you are not looking your best either; though doubtless, if washed off, it would reveal a countenance not sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought--thought such as, alas! must be mine--thought which, if acquainted with the poets, you will recognise as lying too deep for tears." "Governor settin' up in a new line?" asked Sam, slowly contemplating the caravan and a large tarpaulin-covered wagon that stood beside it with shafts resting on the ground. "If, my friend, you allude to Mr. Christopher Hucks, he is not setting up in any new line, but pursuing a fell career on principles which (I am credibly informed) are habitual to him, and for which I can only hope he will be sorry when he is dead. The food, sir, of Mr. Christopher Hucks is still the bread of destitution; his drink, the tears of widows; and the groans of the temporarily embarrassed supply the music of his unhallowed feast." "There is a bit o' that about the old man, until you get to know him," assented Sam cheerfully. "Mr. Christopher Hucks--" began the stranger with slow emphasis, dropping a peeled potato into the bucket and lifting a hand with an open clasp-knife towards heaven. But here a voice from within the caravan interrupted him. "Stanislas!" "My love?" "I can't find the saucepan." A lady appeared at the hatch of the doorway above. Her hair hung in disarray over her well-developed shoulders, and recent tears had left their furrows on a painted but not uncomely face. "I--I--well, to confess the truth, I pawned it, my bud. Dear, every cloud has its silver lining, and meanwhile what shall we say to a simple fry? You have an incomparable knack of frying." "But where's the dripping?" Her husband groaned. "The dripping! The continual dripping! Am I--forgive the bitterness of the question--but am I a stone, love?" He asked it with a hollow laugh, and at the same time with a glance challenged Sam's approval for his desperate pleasantry. Sam jerked his thumb to indicate a wooden out-house on the far side of the yard.