The condition in which he had to-day been discovered by Mr. Ruddiman was not habitual with him.  Once a month, perhaps, his melancholy thoughts drove him to the bottle; for the most part he led a sullen, brooding life, indifferent to the state of his affairs, and only animated when he found a new and appreciative listener to the story of his wrongs.  That he had been grievously wronged was Mr. Fouracres’ immutable conviction.  Not by His Royal Highness; the Prince knew nothing of the strange conspiracy which had resulted in Fouracres’ ruin; letters addressed to His Royal Highness were evidently intercepted by underlings, and never came before the royal eyes.  Again and again had Mr. Fouracres written long statements of his case, and petitioned for an audience.  He was now resolved to adopt other methods; he would use the first opportunity of approaching the Prince’s person, and lifting up his voice where he could not but be heard.  He sought no vulgar gain; his only desire was to have this fact recognised, that he had, indeed, entertained the Prince, and so put to shame all his scornful enemies.  And now the desired occasion offered itself.  In the month of September His Royal Highness would be a guest at Woodbury Manor, distant only some couple of miles from the Pig and Whistle.  It was the excitement of such a prospect which had led Mr. Fouracres to undue indulgence under the apple-tree this afternoon.

A week later Mr. Ruddiman again ascended the hill, and, after listening patiently to the narrative which he had heard fifty times, came to an arrangement with Mr. Fouracres about the room he wished to rent for the holidays.  The terms were very moderate, and the under-master congratulated himself on this prudent step.  He felt sure that a couple of months at the Pig and Whistle would be anything but disagreeable.  The situation was high and healthy; the surroundings were picturesque.  And for society, well, there was Miss Fouracres, whom Mr. Ruddiman regarded as a very sensible and pleasant person.

Of course, no one at Longmeadows had an inkling of the under-master’s intention.  On the day of ‘breaking up’ he sent his luggage, as usual, to the nearest railway station, and that same evening had it conveyed by carrier to the little wayside inn, where, much at ease in mind and body, he passed his first night.

He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader.  In the garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, and there, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in the golden age.  Now and then he tried to awaken his host’s interest in questions of national finance.  It was one of Mr. Ruddiman’s favourite amusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his own financial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament.  All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, and his mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus be added to the national wealth.  But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemed trivial.  A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimes giving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygone glories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge.