The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Astonishing History of Troy Town, by Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Astonishing History of Troy Town Author: Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch Release Date: December 9, 2005 [eBook #17263] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ASTONISHING HISTORY OF TROY TOWN*** E-text prepared by Lionel Sear "This regiment of visitors." (Chapter VII) THE ASTONISHING HISTORY OF TROY TOWN. by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch. 1914 This etext prepared from a reprint of a version published in 1914. TO CHARLES CANNAN. My Dear Cannan, It is told of a distinguished pedagogue that one day a heated stranger burst into his study, and, wringing him by the hand, cried, "Heaven bless and reward you, sir! Heaven preserve you long to educate old England's boyhood! I have walked many a weary, weary mile to see your face again," he continued, flourishing a scrap of paper, "and assure you that but for your discipline, obeyed by me as a boy and remembered as a man, I should never—no, never —have won the Ticket-of-Leave which you behold!" In something of the same spirit I bring you this small volume. The child of encouragement is given to staggering its parent; and I make no doubt that as you turn the following pages, you will more than once exclaim, with the old lady in the ballad— "O, deary me! this is none of I!" Nevertheless, it would be strange indeed if this story bore no marks of you; for a hundred kindly instances have taught me to come with sure reliance for your reproof and praise. Few, I imagine, have the good fortune of a critic so friendly and inexorable; and if the critic has been unsparing, he has been used unsparingly. Wargrave, Henley-on-Thames, June 7, 1888 CONTENTS Chapter I. IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH A STATE OF INNOCENCE; AND THE MEANING OF THE WORD "CUMEELFO" II. HOW AN ADMIRAL TOOK ONE GENTLEMAN FOR ANOTHER, AND WAS TOLD THE DAY OF THE MONTH. III. OF A BLUE-JERSEYED MAN THAT WOULD HOIST NO MORE BRICKS; AND A NIGHTCAP THAT HAD NO BUSINESS TO BE WHERE IT WAS. IV. OF CERTAIN LEPERS; AND TWO BROTHERS WHO, BEING MUCH ALIKE, LOVED THEIR SISTER AND RECOMMENDED THE USE OF GLOBES. V. HOW AN ABSENT-MINDED MAN, THAT HATED WOMEN, TOOK A HOUSE BY THE WATERSIDE AND LIVED THEREIN WITH ONE SERVANT. VI. HOW CERTAIN TROJANS CLIMBED A WALL OUT OF CURIOSITY; AND OF A CHARWOMAN THAT COULD GIVE NO INFORMATION. VII. OF A LADY THAT HAD A MUSICAL VOICE, BUT USED IT TO DECEIVE. VIII. HOW A CREW, THAT WOULD SAIL ON A WASHING-DAY, WAS SHIPWRECKED: WITH AN ADVERTISEMENT AGAINST WOMEN. IX. OF A TOWN THAT WOULD LAUGH AT THE GREAT: AND HOW A DULL COMPANY WAS CURED BY AN IRISH SONG. X. OF ONE EXCURSION AND MANY ALARUMS. XI. OF A WESLEYAN MINISTER THAT WOULD IMPROVE UPON NATURE, AND THEREBY TRAINED A ROOK TO GOOD PRINCIPLES. XII. OF DETERIORATION; AND A WHEELBARROW THAT CONTAINED UNEXPECTED THINGS. XIII. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF POMEROY'S CAT; AND HOW THE MEN AND WOMEN OF TROY ENSUED AFTER PLEASURE IN BOATS. XIV. OF A LADY OF SENSIBILITY THAT, BEING AWKWARDLY PLACED, MIGHT EASILY HAVE SET MATTERS RIGHT, BUT DID NOT; WITH MUCH BESIDE. XV. HOW A LADY AND A YOUTH, BEING SEPARATED FROM THEIR COMPANY, VISITED A SHIP THAT HELD NOTHING BUT WATER. XVI. OF STRATEAGEMS AND SPOILS; AND THAT THE NOMINALISTS ERR WHO HOLD A THING TO BE WHAT IT IS CALLED. XVII. HOW ONE THAT WAS DISSATISFIED WITH HIS PAST SAW A VISION, BUT DOUBTED. XVIII. OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD START UPON A DARK ADVENTURE, BUT HAD TWO MINDS UPON IT. XIX. THAT A SILVER BULLET HAS VIRTUE; WITH A WARNING TO COMMODORES. XX. HOW CERTAIN CHARACTERS FOUND THEMSELVES, AT DEAD OF NIGHT, UPON THE FIVE LANES ROAD. XXI. THAT A VERY LITTLE TEA MAY SUFFICE TO ELEVATE A MAN. XXII. IN WHICH SEVERAL ATTEMPTS ARE MADE TO PUT A PERIOD TO THIS HISTORY. XXIII. HOW ONE LOVER TOOK LEAVE OF HIS WITS, AND TWO CAME TO THEIR SENSES. XXIV. OF THE BEST HELLEBORE; AND AN EXPERIMENT IN THE ENTERTAINMENT OF TWINS. XV. WHICH ENDS THIS STORY OF TROY. CHAPTER I. IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH A STATE OF INNOCENCE; AND THE MEANING OF THE WORD "CUMEELFO". "Any news to-night?" asked Admiral Buzza, leading a trump. "Hush, my love," interposed his wife timidly, with a glance at the Vicar. She liked to sit at her husband's left, and laid her small cards before him as so many tributes to his greatness. "I will not hush, Emily. I repeat, is there any news to-night?" Miss Limpenny, his hostess and vis-a-vis, finding the Admiral's eye fierce upon her, coughed modestly and announced that twins had just arrived to the postmistress. Her manner, as she said this, implied that, for aught she knew, they had come with the letters. The Vicar took the trick and gathered it up in silence. He was a portly, antique gentleman, with a fine taste for scandal in its proper place, but disliked conversation during a rubber. "Twins, eh?" growled the Admiral. "Just what I expected. She always was a wasteful woman." "My love!" expostulated his wife. Miss Limpenny blushed. "They'll come to the workhouse," he went on, "and serve him right for making such a marriage." "I have heard that his heart is in the right place," pleaded Miss Limpenny, "but he used—" "Eh, ma'am?" "It's of no consequence," said Miss Limpenny, with becoming bashfulness. "It's only that he always used, in sorting his cards, to sit upon his trumps—that always seemed to me—" "Just so," replied the Admiral, "and now it's twins. Bless the man! what next?" It was in the golden age, before Troy became demoralised, as you shall hear. At present you are to picture the drawing-room of the Misses Limpenny arranged for an "evening": the green rep curtains drawn, the "Book of Beauty" disposed upon the centre table, the ballad music on the piano, and the Admiral's double-bass in the corner. Six wax candles were beaming graciously on cards, tea-cakes and ratafias; on the pictures of "The First Drive," and "The Orphan's Dream," the photographic views of Troy from the harbour, the opposite hill, and one or two other points, and finally the noted oil-painting of Miss Limpenny's papa as he appeared shortly after preaching an assize sermon. Above all, the tea-service was there—the famous set in real silver presented to the late Reverend Limpenny by his flock, and Miss Priscilla—she at the card-table—wore her best brooch with a lock of his hair arranged therein as a fleur-de-lys. I wish I could convey to you some of the innocent mirth of those "evenings" in Troy—those noctes Limpennianae when the ladies brought their cap-boxes (though the Buzzas and Limpennys were but semi- detached neighbours), and the Admiral and his wife insisted on playing against each other, so that the threepenny points never affected their weekly accounts. Those were happy days when the young men were not above singing the "Death of Nelson," or joining in a glee, and arming the young ladies home afterwards. In those days "Hocken's Slip" had not yet become the "Victoria Quay," and we talked of the "Rope Walk" where we now say "Marine Parade." Alas! our tastes have altered with Troy. Yet we were vastly genteel. We even had our shibboleth, a verdict to be passed before anything could hope for toleration in Troy. The word to be pronounced was "CUMEELFO," and all that was not Cumeelfo was Anathema. So often did I hear this word from Miss Limpenny's lips that I grew in time to clothe it with an awful meaning. It meant to me, as nearly as I can explain, "All Things Sanctioned by the Principles of the Great Exhibition of 1851," and included as time went on— Crochet Antimacassars. Art in the style of the "Greek Slave." "Elegant Extracts," and the British Poets as edited by Gilfillan. Corkscrew Curls and Prunella Boots. Album Verses. Quadrille-dancing, and the Deux-temps. Popular Science. Proposals on the bended Knee. Conjuring and Variety Entertainments. The Sentimental Ballad. The Proprieties, etc., etc., etc. The very spirit of this word breathed over the Limpenny drawing-room to-night, and Miss Priscilla's lips seemed to murmur it as she gazed across to where her sister Lavinia was engaged in a round game with the young people. These were Admiral Buzza's three daughters, Sophy, Jane, and Calypso—the last named after her father's old ship—and young Mr. Moggridge, the amusing collector of customs. They were playing with ratafias for counters (ratafias were cumeelfo), and peals of guileless laughter from time to time broke in upon the grave silence of the whist-table. For always, on such occasions, in the glow of Miss Limpenny's wax candles, Youth and Age held opposite camps, with the centre table as debatable ground; nor, until the rubber was finished, and the round game had ended in a seemly scramble for ratafias, would the two recognise each other's presence, save now and then by a "Hush, if you please, young people," from the elder sister, followed by a whispered, "What spirits your dear girls enjoy!" for Mrs. Buzza's ear. But at length the signal would be given by Miss Priscilla. "Come, a little music perhaps might leave a pleasant taste. What do you say, Vicar?" Upon which the Vicar would regularly murmur— "Say, rather, would gild refined gold, Miss Limpenny." And the Admiral as invariably broke in with— "Come, Sophy! remember the proverb about little birds that can sing and won't sing." This prelude having been duly recited, the Misses Buzza would together trip to the piano, on which the two younger girls in duet were used to accompany Sophia's artless ballads. The performance gained a character of its own from a habit to which Calypso clung, of counting the time in an audible aside: as thus— Sophia (singing): "Oh, breathe but a whispered command." Calypso: "One, two, three, four." Sophia: "I'll lay down my life for thee!" Calypso: "One, two, three, four." —the effect of which upon strangers has been known to be paralysing, though we who were cumeelfo pretended not to notice it. But Sophy could also accompany her own songs, such as, "Will you love me then as now?" and "I'd rather be a daisy," with much feeling. She was clever, too, with the water-colour brush, and to her we owe that picture of " H.M.S. Calypso in a Storm," which hangs to this day over the Admiral's mantelpiece. I could dwell on this evening for ever; not that the company was so large as usual, but because it was the last night of our simplicity. With the next morning we passed out of our golden age, and in the foolishness of our hearts welcomed the change. It was announced to us in this manner— The duets had been beaten out of Miss Limpenny's piano—an early Collard, with a top like a cupboard, fluted in pink silk and wearing a rosette in front; the performers, on retiring, had curtseyed in acknowledgment of the Vicar's customary remark about the "Three Graces "; the Admiral had wrung from his double-bass the sounds we had learnt to identify with elfin merriment (though suggestive, rather, of seasick mutineers under hatches), and our literary collector, Mr. Moggridge, was standing up to recite a trifle of his own—"flung off"—as he explained, "not pruned or polished." The hush in the drawing-room was almost painful—for in those days we all admired Mr. Moggridge—as the poet tossed back a stray lock from his forehead, flung an arm suddenly out at right angles to his person, and began sepulchrally— "Maiden"— (Here he looked very hard at Miss Lavinia Limpenny.) "Maiden, what dost thou in the chill churchyard Beside yon grassy mound? The night hath fallen, the rain is raining hard Damp is the ground." Mrs. Buzza shivered, and began to weep quietly. "Maiden, why claspest thou that cold, cold stone Against thy straining breast? Tell me, what dost thou at this hour alone? (Persuasively) The lambs have gone to rest. The maiden lifted up her tearful gaze, And thus she made reply: 'My mother, sir, is—'" But the secret of her conduct remains with Mr. Moggridge, for at this moment the door opened, and the excited head of Sam Buzza, the Admiral's only son, was thrust into the room. "Maiden, what dost thou in the chill churchyard—" "I say, have you heard the news? 'The Bower' is let." "What!" All eyes were fixed on the newcomer. The Vicar woke up. Even the poet, with his arm still at right angles and the verse arrested on his lips, turned to stare incredulously. "It's a fact; I heard it down at the Man-o'-War Club meeting, you know," he explained. "Goodwyn-Sandys is his name, the Honourable Goodwyn-Sandys, brother to Lord Sinkport—and what's more, he is coming by the mid-day train to-morrow." The poet's arm dropped like a railway signal. There was a long pause, and then the voices broke out all together— "Only fancy!" "There now!" "'The Bower' let at last!" "An Honourable, too!" "What is he like?" "Are you sure?" "Well, I never did!" "Miss Limpenny," gasped the Admiral, at length, "where is your Burke?" It lay between the "Cathedrals of England" and "Gems of Modern Art"; under the stereoscope. Miss Lavinia produced it. "Let me see," said the Admiral, turning the pages. "Sinkport— Sinkport—here we are—George St. Leonards Goodwyn-Sandys, fourth baron—H'm, h'm, here it is—only brother, Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys, b. 1842—married—" "Married!" "1876—Geraldine, eighth daughter of Sheil O'Halloran of Kilmacuddy Court, County Kerry—blank space for issue—arms: gules, a bar sinist—Ahem! Well, upon my word!" "I'm sure," sighed Mrs. Buzza, after the excitement had cooled a little—"I'm sure I only hope they will settle down to our humble ways." "Emily," snapped her husband, "you speak like a fool. Pooh! Let me tell you, ma'am, that our ways in Troy are not humble!" Outside, in Miss Limpenny's back garden, the laurestinus bushes sighed as they caught those ominous words. So might Eden have sighed, aware of its serpent. CHAPTER II. HOW AN ADMIRAL TOOK ONE GENTLEMAN FOR ANOTHER, AND WAS TOLD THE DAY OF THE MONTH. Next morning, almost before the sun was up, all Troy was in possession of the news; and in Troy all that is personal has a public interest. It is this local spirit that marks off the Trojan from all other minds. In consequence long before ten o'clock struck, it was clear that some popular movement was afoot; and by half-past eleven the road to the railway station was crowded with Trojans of all sorts and conditions—boatmen, pilots, fishermen, sailors out of employ, the local photographer, men from the ship-building yards, makers of ship's biscuit, of ropes, of sails, chandlers, block and pump manufacturers, loafers—representatives, in short, of all the staple industries: women with baskets—women with babies, women with both, even a few farmers in light gigs with their wives, or in carts with their families, a sprinkling from Penpoodle, across the harbour—high and low, Church and Dissent, with children by the hundred. Some even proposed to ring the church bells and fire the cannon at the harbour's mouth; but the ringers and artillerymen preferred to come and see the sight. As it was, the "George" floated proudly from the church tower, and the Fife and Drum Temperance Band stood ready at the corner of East Street. All Troy, in fact, was on tip-toe. Meanwhile, as few in the crowd possessed Burke or Debrett, the information that passed from mouth to mouth was diverse and peculiar, but, as was remarked by a laundress in the crowd to a friend: "He may be the Pope o' Rome, my dear, an' he may be the Dook o' Wellington, an' not a soul here wud know t'other from which no mor'n if he was Adam. All I says is—the Lord send he's a professin' Christian, an' has his linen washed reg'lar. My! What a crush! I only wish my boy Jan was here to see; but he's stayin' at home, my dear, cos his father means to kill the pig to-day, an' the dear child do so love to hear'n screech." The Admiral, who happened by the merest chance to be sauntering along the Station Road this morning, in his best blue frock-coat with a flower in the buttonhole, corrected some of the rumours, but without much success. Finding the throng so thick, he held a long debate between curiosity and dignity. The latter won, and he returned to No. 2, Alma Villas, in a flutter, some ten minutes before the train was due. By noon the crowd was growing impatient. But hardly had the church clock chimed the hour when the shriek of a whistle was heard from up the valley. Amid wild excitement a puff of white smoke appeared, then another, and finally the mid-day train steamed serenely into the station. As it drew up, a mild spectacled face appeared at the window of a first-class carriage, and asked— "Is this Troy?" "Yessir—terminus. Any luggage, sir?" The mild face got out. It belonged to the only stranger in the train. "There is only a black portmanteau," said he. "Ah, that is it. I shall want it put in the cloakroom for an hour or two while I go into the town." The stranger gave up his ticket—a single ticket—and stepped outside the station. He was a mild, thin man, slightly above middle height, with vacant eyes and a hesitating manner. He wore a black suit, a rather rusty top- hat, and carried a silk umbrella. "Here he comes!" "Look, that's him!" "Give 'un a cheer, boys." "Hip, hip, hoor-roar!" The sound burst upon the clear sky in a deafening peal. The stranger paused and looked confused. "Dear me!" he murmured to himself, "the population here seems to be excited about something—and, bless my soul, what a lot of it there is!" He might well say so. Along the road, arms, sticks, baskets, and handkerchiefs were frantically waving; men shouting and children hurrahing with might and main. Windows were flung up; heads protruded; flags waved in frenzied welcome. The tumult was stupendous. There was not a man, woman, or child in Troy but felt the demonstration must be hearty, and determined to make it a success. "What can have caused this riot?" The stranger paused with a half-timid air, but after a while resumed his walk. The shouts broke out again, and louder than ever. "Welcome, welcome to Troy! Hooroar! One more, lads! Hooroar!" and all the handkerchiefs waved anew. "Bless my soul, what is the matter?" Then suddenly he became aware that all this frantic display was meant for him. How he first learnt it he could never afterwards explain, but the shock of it brought a deathly faintness. "There is some horrible mistake," he murmured hoarsely, and turned to run. He was too late. The crowd had closed around him, and swept him on, cheering, yelling, vociferating towards the town. He feebly put up a hand for silence— "My friends," he shouted, "you are—" "Yes, yes, we know. Welcome! Welcome! Hip-hip-hoo-roar!" "My friends, I assure you—" Boom! Boom! Tring-a-ring—boom! It was that accursed Fife and Drum Temperance Band. In a moment five-and-twenty fifers were blowing "See, the conquering hero comes," with all their breath, and marching to the beat of a deafening drum. Behind them came a serried crowd with the stranger in its midst, and a straggling train of farmers' gigs and screaming urchins closed the procession. Miss Limpenny, at the first-storey window of No. 1 Alma Villas, heard the yet distant din. With trembling fingers she hung out of window a loyal pocket-handkerchief (worn by her mother at the Jubilee of King George III), shut down the sash upon it, and discreetly retired again behind her white blinds to watch. The cheering grew louder, and Miss Limpenny's heart beat faster. "I hope," she thought to herself, "I hope that their high connections will not have given them a distaste for our hearty ways. Well as I know Troy, I think I might be frightened at this display of public feeling." She peeped out over the white blinds. Next door, the Admiral was fuming nervously up and down his gravel walk. He was debating the propriety of his costume. Even yet there was time to run up-stairs and don his cocked hat and gold-laced coat before the procession arrived. Between the claims of his civil and official positions the poor man was in a ferment. "As a man of the world," Miss Limpenny soliloquised, "the Honourable Frederic Goodwyn-Sandys cannot fail to appreciate our sterling Admiral. Dear, dear, here they come! I do trust dearest Lavinia has not put herself in too conspicuous a position at the parlour window. What a lot of people, to be sure!" The crowd had gathered volume during its passage through the town, and the "Conquering Hero" was more distractingly shrill than ever. The goal was almost reached, for "The Bower" stood next door to Alma Villas, and was divided from them only by a road which led down to the water's edge and the Penpoodle ferry boat. "Why, everybody is here," said Miss Limpenny, "except, of course, the Vicar. There's Pharaoh Geddye waving a flag, and blind Sam Hockin and Mrs. Hockin with him, I declare, and Bathsheba Merryfield, and Jim the dustman, and Seth Udy in the band—he must have taken the pledge lately—and Walter Sibley and a score I don't even know by sight. And, bless my heart! that's old Cobbledick, wooden leg and all! I thought he was bed- ridden for life. But I don't see the arrivals yet. I wonder who that poor man is, in the crowd—it can't be—and yet —Why, whatever is the Admiral doing?" For Admiral Buzza had opened his front gate and deliberately stepped out into the road. The stranger, dishevelled, haggard and bewildered, had long since abandoned all attempts at explanation and fallen into a desperate apathy, when all at once a dozen voices in front cried "Hush!" The band broke off suddenly, and the cheering died away. "Make way for the Admiral!" "Out of the road, there!" "The Admiral's going to speak!" "Silence for the Admiral!" The stranger looked up and saw through the opening in the crowd a little man advancing, hat in hand. He had a red face, and the importance of his mission had lent it even a deeper tint than it usually wore: his bald head was fringed with stiff grey hair: he was clothed in "pepper-and-salt" trousers, a blue frock-coat and waistcoat, and carried a large bunch of primroses in his buttonhole. His step was full of dignity and his voice of grave politeness, as he began, with a bow— "Though not the accredited spokesman of my fellow-citizens here, I am sure I shall not be deemed presumptuous" (cries of "No") "if I venture to give expression to some of the kindly sentiments which I am sure we one and all entertain upon this auspicious occasion." (Loud cheers.) "For upwards of twenty years I have now resided in this beautiful and prosperous—I think I may use these words" ("Hear, hear!") "this beautiful and prosperous little town, and it is therefore with the more sincere pleasure" (here the Admiral laid his hand upon his waistcoat) "that I bid you welcome to Troy." (Frantic cheering.) "We had hoped—I say we had hoped—to have seen your good lady also among us to-day: but doubtless when 'The Bower' is prepared—the—ahem! the bird will fly thither." Vociferous applause followed this impromptu trope, and for some moments the Admiral's voice was completely drowned. "I hope and trust," he went on, as soon as silence was restored, "that she enjoys good health." The stranger looked more perplexed than ever. "But be that as it may—be that, I say, as it may, my pleasant duty is now discharged. In the name of my fellow-Trojans and in my own name I bid you a hearty welcome to 'The Bower.'" (Loud and continuous cheering, during which the Admiral handed his card with a flourish, and mopped his brow.) "I can assure you," replied the stranger after a pause, "that I am deeply sensible of your kindness—" (The cheering was renewed.) "While conscious," he went on, "that I have done nothing to deserve it. In point of fact, I think you must all be labouring under some ridiculous delusion." "What do you mean, sir?" gasped the Admiral. "Do you mean to say you are not the new tenant of this delightful residence?" Then the speaker waved his hand in the direction of "The Bower." "Certainly I am not." "Then, damme, sir! who are you?" cried the Admiral, whose temper was, as we know, short. "My name is Fogo," replied the stranger. "Here is my card—Philip Fogo—at your service." Even Miss Limpenny, with the first-floor window of No. 1 timidly lifted to admit the Admiral's eloquence; even the three Misses Buzza, arranged in a row behind the parlour blinds of No. 2, and gazing with fond pride upon their papa; even Mrs. Buzza, nervously clasping her hands on the upper storey;—could not but perceive that something dreadful was happening. The Admiral's face turned from crimson to purple; he positively choked. The situation needed a solution. A wag among the crowd hit upon it. "Tell th' Admiral, some of 'ee: what day es et?" "Fust of April!" cried a voice, then another; and then— Then the throng broke into roar upon roar of inextinguishable laughter. The whole deluded town turned and cast its April folly, as a garment, upon the Admiral's shoulders. It was in vain that he stamped and raved and swore. They only held their sides and laughed the louder. The credit of Trojan humour was saved. With a final oath the Admiral dashed through his front gate and into the house. The volgus infidum formed in procession again, and marched back with shouts of merriment; the popularis aura of the five-and-twenty fifers resumed the "Conquering Hero," and Mr. Fogo was left standing alone in the middle of the road. CHAPTER III. OF A BLUE-JERSEYED MAN THAT WOULD HOIST NO MORE BRICKS; AND A NIGHTCAP THAT HAD NO BUSINESS TO BE WHERE IT WAS. No one acquainted with the character of that extraordinary town will be surprised when I say that, within an hour after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Troy had resumed its workday quiet. By two o'clock nothing was to be heard but the tick-tack of mallets in the ship-building yards, the puffing of the steam-tug, the rattle of hawsers among the vessels out in the harbour, and the melodious "Woo-hoo!" of a crew at capstan or windlass. Troy in carnival and Troy sober are as opposite, you must know, as the poles. Fun is all very well, but business is business, and Troy is a trading port with a character to keep up: for who has not heard the bye-word — "Working like a Trojan"? At two o'clock on this same day a little schooner lay alongside the town quay, busily discharging bricks. That is to say, a sunburnt man, blue-jerseyed and red with brick-dust, leisurely turned a windlass which let down an empty bucket and brought it up full. Another blue-jerseyed man, also sunburnt and red with brick-dust, then pulled it on shore, emptied and returned it; and the operation was repeated. A choleric little man, of about fifty, presumably the proprietor of the bricks, stood on the edge of the quay, and swore alternately at the man with the windlass and the man ashore. "Look 'ere," said the man at the windlass, after a bit. "Stop cussin'. This ain't a hurdy-gurdy, and if you expec's music you'll have to toss us a copper." The owner of the bricks swore worse than ever. Round went the windlass as leisurely as might be and another bucketful was hoisted ashore. The man on deck spat on his hands, and broke into cheerful song:— "Was you iver to Que-bec, Bonnie laddie, Hieland laddie Was you iver to Que-bec, Rousing timber over the deck? Hey my bonny laddie! Wur-roo! my heart's—" The rage of the little man found extra vent. "Look here, Caleb Trotter," he concluded, after a full minute of profanity, "how do you think I'm to get my living and pay a set of lubberly dolts like you?" Caleb paused with his hand on the windlass, and suggested retrenchment of the halfpenny a week hitherto spent in manners. "'Cos, you see, all this po-liteness of yourn es a'runnin' to waste," he explained with fine irony. But before the next load was more than three-parts hoisted, Caleb's patience was exhausted. What he did was simple but decisive. He removed his hold; the handle whizzed violently round, and the bucket of bricks descended to the hold with a crash. "Now I tell 'ee straight. Enough's enough; an' I han't got time, at my time o' life, to be po-lite to ivery red- faced chap I meets. You can pay me or no, as you likes; but I'm off to get a drink. An' that's all about et; an' wen 'tes over, 'tes over, as Joan said by her weddin'." With this Caleb stepped ashore, spat good-naturedly, put his hands in his pockets, and went off whistling. At this moment Mr. Fogo, who had been on the quay long enough to hear this altercation, touched him softly by the arm. "You said you were going to have a drink, I believe. May I go with you? I wish to ask you a few questions." "You said you were going to have a drink, I believe. May I go with you?" "Sutt'nly, sir," said Caleb with a stifled grin, as he recognised the hero of the morning. "I generally patronises the 'King o' Prooshia' for beer. It won't make your hair curl, nor yet prevent your seein' a hole dro' a ladder: but perhaps neither o' these is your objec'." Mr. Fogo, a little bewildered, replied modestly that he pursued neither of these aims. Caleb led the way across the quay, and they ascended the steps of the "King of Prussia" together. "My object," said Mr. Fogo timidly, as they were seated together in the low-roofed parlour before two foaming mugs—"My object was this. In the first place, I like your look." "Same to you, sir," said Caleb, and acknowledged the compliment with a draught, "though 'tes what my gal said afore she desarted me for a Rooshan." "Are you a single man, then?" "To be sure, sir." "So much the better—but I will talk of that presently. I, too, am a single man, with rather peculiar tastes. One of these is solitude. I had heard of Troy as a place where I was likely to find this, though my experience of this morning—" Fig4. "Never mind, sir. Accidents will happen even in the best reggylated families. You was took for another, which has happened even to Bible characters afore this—though Jacob's the only one I can call to mind just now." "Still, I should be sorry to go back with the knowledge that my journey has been in vain. But I must have solitude at any price, and the reason why I am consulting you is that you might possibly know of a house to let in this neighbourhood, where I could be alone and secure against visitors." Caleb scratched his head. "I'm sure, sir, 'tes hard to say. Troy's a powerful place for knowin' what your neighbour's got for dinner, and they do say as the Admiral's telescope will carry dro' a brick wall." Mr. Fogo's face fell. "Stop a bit," said Caleb more brightly. "About livin' inside o' the town, now—es that a shiny cannon?" "A what?" "A shiny cannon—which es the same as to say, won't et do elst?" "Oh, a sine-qua-non," said Mr. Fogo; "no, I am not particularly anxious to live in the town itself." "Wud the matter of a mile up the river be out o' the way?" "Not at all." "An' about rent?" "Within reasonable limits, that would not matter." "Then my advice to you, sir, es to see the Twins about et." Mr. Fogo's mild face looked more puzzled than ever. He removed his spectacles, wiped and resumed them. "For any reasonable object," he said, "I am ready to see any number of twins—much as I dislike babies—" But here Caleb interrupted him by bursting into a roar of laughter which lasted for half a minute. "Babbies! Well I—ho! ho!—'scuse me, sir—but aw dear, aw dear! Babbies! Bab—" Here he slapped his thigh and broke into another roar, at the end of which he grew fairly black in the face. "Bless yer innocent heart, sir! They'm a matter o' six foot high, the both—and risin' forty. Dearlove's their name—and lives up the river 'long wi' their sister—Peter an' Paul an' Tamsin (which es short for Thom-a-si-na), an' I've heerd tell as the boys came nigh to bein' chrisn'd Sihon an' Og, on'y the old Vicar said he'd be blowed fust—very free wi' his langwidge was th' ould Vicar." "I should fancy so," said Mr. Fogo; "but you'll excuse me if I don't quite see, yet, why you advise me to call on these people." "No offence, sir. On'y they owns Kit's House, that's all." "I see; and Kit's House is the place you have in your mind." "That's et, sir." "And these Dearloves, where do they live?" "Furder up the river by two mile." "Could you row me up this afternoon to see them?" Caleb Trotter rose, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. "Wi' all the pleasure in life, sir, as Uncle Zachy said when he gi'ed his da'ter in marriage." In less than ten minutes Caleb had brought his boat round to the quay. Mr. Fogo stepped in, and was presently seated in the stern and meditatively listening while Caleb rowed—and talked—"like a Trojan." Here we may leave them for a while and return to the Admiral, whom we left in the act of plunging furiously into his own house. It was not the habit of that fiery little tar to hide his emotions from the wife of his bosom. "Emily!" he bellowed, "Em-i-ly, I say! Come down this instant." The three Misses Buzza at the parlour window knew the tone, and shuddered: Mrs. Buzza, up-stairs, heard, trembled, and obeyed. "Yes, darling. What is it?" "Fill the warming-pan at once. I'm going to bed." "To bed, love!" "Yes, to bed. Don't I speak plainly enough? To bed, ma'am, to bed, and at once." "You are upset, dearest; be cool, I implore you." "Be cool! Be coo'—Don't hector me, ma'am, but fetch that warming-pan at once. I'll teach you about being cool! Sophy, pull off my boots." They obeyed. The warming-pan was brought—an enormous engine, big enough to hold the Admiral himself —and the bed heated. The Admiral undressed, and, himself a warming-pan of rage, plunged between the sheets. It was a wonder the bed-clothes were not on fire. "Pull down the blind, and bring me something to eat!" "Yes, love." "And be quick about it. Can't you see I'm starving?" It is true that the Admiral's excitement had interfered with his breakfast that morning, but it was none the less difficult to read starvation upon his face. Mrs. Buzza obeyed, however; and presently returned with the liver-wing of a fowl. "You call that a dinner for a hungry man, I suppose! Bring me some more!" "My dear, I didn't know you wanted a dinner." "Confound it, ma'am! must I put dress-studs in my night-shirt to convince you I want to dine? Bring me some more!" "There is no more fowl, dear. I kept this from yesterday's as a tit-bit for you." "What is for dinner to-day?" "Boiled beef: but you said expressly that dinner was to be late to-day, in consequence of the arrivals, and it is not nearly done yet." "I don't care, bring it!" The mention of the arrivals sent the Admiral up to a white heat again. "But, my—" "Bring it!" It was brought. The Admiral had two helpings, and then a glass of grog. "Go." Mrs. Buzza withdrew. Left to himself, the Admiral tossed, and turned, and fumed, and swore, lay still for a while, and then repeated the process backwards. After a time the bed-clothes began to prick him, and the heat to become a positive torture. He leapt out, and tore at the bell-rope, until it came away in his hand—just as his wife reappeared. "Will you kindly inform me what the devil's wrong with this bed? Who made it?" "Selina, dear." "Then will you kindly give Selina a month's notice on the spot? Do you hear? On the spot—What's that?" The Admiral rushed to the window and pulled up the blind. He was just in time to see a close carriage and pair dash past and pull up at "The Bower." A moment afterwards, Miss Limpenny, from the first-storey window of No. 1, saw the carriage door open, and a tall gentleman emerge. The tall gentleman was followed by a lady, whom even at that distance Miss Limpenny could see to possess a remarkably graceful figure. A small youth in livery sprang down from beside the coachman and helped to lower the boxes, whilst the new arrivals passed into the house where the charwoman, Mrs. Snell, stood smearing her face with her apron, and ducking in frenzied welcome. The Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Goodwyn-Sandys and his wife, instead of arriving by train, had posted from Five-Lanes Junction. There was no public demonstration. They might as well have come in the dead of night. Miss Limpenny was almost the sole witness of their arrival, and Miss Limpenny's observations were cut short by a terrible occurrence. She had taken stock of the Honourable Frederic, and pronounced him "aristocratic-looking"; of the Honourable Mrs. Frederic's travelling-dress, and decided it to be Cumeelfo; she had counted the boxes twice, and made them seven each time; she was about to count the buttons on the liveried youth, when— To this day she sinks her voice as she narrates it. She saw—the unseemliness, the monstrous indelicacy of it! —she saw—the nightcap and shoulders of Admiral Buzza craning out of the next-door window! What happened next? Whether she actually fainted, or merely kept her eyes shut, she cannot clearly remember. But for weeks afterwards, as she declares, the sight of a man caused her to "turn all colours." It was significant, this nightcap of Admiral Buzza—as the ram's horn to Jericho, the Mother Carey's chicken to the doomed ship. It announced, even as it struck, the first blow at the old morality of Troy. CHAPTER IV. OF CERTAIN LEPERS; AND TWO BROTHERS, WHO, BEING MUCH ALIKE, LOVED THEIR SISTER, AND RECOMMENDED THE USE OF GLOBES. I must here clear myself on a point which has no doubt caused the reader some indignation. "We remarked," he or she will say, "that, some chapters back, the Admiral described Troy as a 'beautiful little town.' Why, then, have we had no description of it, no digressions on scenery, no word-painting?" To this I answer—Dear sir, or madam, no one who has known Troy was ever yet capable of describing it. If you doubt me, visit the town and see for yourself. I will for the moment suppose you to do so. What happens? On the first day you take a boat and row about the harbour. "Scenery!" you exclaim, "why, what could you have more? Here is a lovely harbour flanked by bold hills to right and left; here are the ruined castles, witnesses of the great days when Troy sent ships to carry the English army to Agincourt; here axe grey houses huddled at the water's edge, hoary, battered walls and quay-doors coated with ooze and green weed. Such is Troy, and on the further shore quaint Penpoodle faces it, where a silver creek, dividing, runs up to Lanbeg; further up, the harbour melts into a river where the old ferry-boat plies to and from the foot of a tiny village straggling up the hill; further yet, and the jetties mingle with the steep woods beside the roads, where the vessels lie thickest; ships of all builds and of all nations, from the trim Canadian timber-ship to the corpulent Billy-boy. Why, the very heart of the picturesque is here. What more can you want?" On the second day you will see all this from the harbour again, or perhaps you will cross the ferry and climb the King's Walk on the opposite bank; you will see it all, but with a change. It is more lovely, but not the same. On the third day you will cast about in your mind to explain this; and so in time you will come to find that it is the spirit of Troy that plays this trick upon you. For you will have learnt to love the place, and love, as you know, dear sir or madam, is apt to affect the eyesight. The eyes of Mr. Fogo, as Caleb pulled sturdily up with the tide, were passing through the first of these stages. "This," he said at length, reflectively, "is one of the loveliest spots I have looked upon." Caleb, in whom humanity and Trojanity were nicely compounded, flushed a bright copper-colour with pleasure. "'Tes reckoned a tidy spot," he answered modestly, "by them as cares for voos an' such-like." "There, now," he went on, after a pause, and turning round, "yonder's Kit's House, wi' Kit's Cottage, next door. You can't see the house so plain, 'cos 'tes behind the trees. But there 'tes, right enough." "Is the cottage uninhabited, too?" "Both on 'em. Ha'nted they do say. By the way, I niver axed 'ee whether you minded ghostes?" "Ghosts?" "Iss, ghostes. This 'ere place was a Lazarus one time, where they kept leppards." "Leopards? How very singular!" murmured Mr. Fogo. "Ay, leppards as white as snow, as the sayin' goes." "Oh, I see," said Mr. Fogo, suddenly enlightened. "You mean that this was a Lazar-house." "That's so—a Lazarus. The leppards used to live there together, and when they died, they was berried at dead o' night down at thicky spit you sees yonder. No one had dealin's wi' 'em nor went nigh 'em, 'cept that they was allowed to make ropes. 'Tesn' so many years that the rope-walk was moved down to th' harbour mouth." Caleb stopped rowing, and leant forward on his paddles. "These 'ere leppards in time got to be quite a happy famb'ly—'cept, of course, they warn't happy, 'cos nobody wudn' have nuthin' to say to 'em. Well, the story goes as one on 'em got falled in love wi' by a very nice gal down in Troy, and one fine day she ups an' tells her sorrowin' parents that she's agoin' to marry a leppard. 'Not ef we knows et,' says they; 'we forbids the banns'; and wi' that they went off to bed thinkin' as they'd settled et. 'But,' says Parson Lasky—" "Who was he?" interrupted Mr. Fogo. "On'y a figger o' speech, sir, and nothin' to do wi' the yarn, as the strollin' actor said when his theayter cotched a-fire. Wot I meant was, that very night the gal gets a boat an' rows up to Kit's House, arter leavin' a letter to say as she'd drownded hersel'. An' there she lived in hidin', 'long wi' the leppards for the rest of her days, which, by the tale, warn't many, an' she an' her sweetheart was berried in wan grave." Caleb paused for breath. "And the ghosts?" said Mr. Fogo, much interested.