“I sha’n’t tell him this time, but don’t let me catch you handling any of our property again”; and I left the room. A little flustered by my late tussle and hardly yet in a mood for the interview I clearly foresaw would be no amicable one, I wandered out, turning my footsteps, not at present in the direction of the doctor’s house, but toward that part of the river called the “weirs,” which ran straight away from the mill front. This was a pleasant, picturesque stretch down which the water, shaded by many stooping trees and bushes, washed and gurgled brightly. A railed pathway ran by it and, to the same side, cottages at intervals and little plats of flowering parterres. It was a reach which, unpreserved, was much favored of the townsfolk for fishing. A man was whipping the stream now in its broadest part, and I stopped to watch him. He was a rosy, well-knit fellow of 35 or so, with a good-humored, bibulous eye and a foolish underjaw. “Any sport?” I asked. “Plenty o’ sport,” said he, “but no fish.” “You’re a philosopher, it seems.” “Mebbe I arm, for what it may mean. A pint of ale ’ud cure it.” “Why not a pint of water? It’s there and to spare.” “The beggar’s tap, master. I arns my living.” “Well, buy your pot of ale out of it.” “I’d rather you tuk the responsibility off me.” “Well,” said I, with a grin, “let’s see you catch a fish and I’ll stand treat.” He threw for some time in silence. “I must be off,” said I. “Fair play, master! I harsn’t got my fish yet.” “I can’t wait all day for that.” “Then, pay up. You put no limit to the time.” I laughed and gave him the money, and he spat upon it for luck. “You come fro’ yon old mill, don’tee?” said he. “Yes, I do. You know me, it appears. Who may you be?” “They carls me saxton ower at St. John’s yonder.” I received his answer with a little start. Were these the hands that had dug the grave for my dead brother? “They call you? What do you call yourself?” I said. “High priest to the worms, wi’ your honor’s leave.” He stuck his tongue in his cheek and whipped out his fly again. This time it disappeared with a fat blob and his hand came smartly up. I watched him while he wheeled in his floundering prize. “Ay,” he went on, as he stooped to unhook the trout, “the worms and I works on the mutual-profit system. I feeds them and they feeds me. Sometimes”--he looked round and up at me slyly--“they shows a power o’ gratitoode ower an uncommon rich meal and makes me a particlar acknowledgment o’ my services.” CHAPTER XXXIII. FACE TO FACE. In the cool of the evening I knocked at Dr. Crackenthorpe’s front door. No one answering--his one servant was gadding, probably--I tried the handle, found it to be on the latch only, and walked in. The house was quiet as a desert, save that from the doctor’s private consulting-room, as he called it, issued a little, weak, snoring sound.