could see for another shilling.  No?  Well, if you would like to see a year for nothing—­No?  Now, I know a lad, an attorney’s clerk here, name of Chatterton, would give his ears for the offer.  Perhaps your name is Smith?’ the old fellow continued, looking curiously at Mr. Fishwick.  ’If it is, you may like to know that the name of Smith is in the register of burials just three hundred-and eighty-three times—­was last Friday!  Oh, it is not Smith?  Well, if it is Brown, it is there two hundred and seventy times—­and one over!’

‘That is an odd thought of yours,’ said the lawyer, staring at the conceit.

‘So many have said,’ the old man chuckled.  ’But it is not Brown?  Jones, perhaps?  That comes two hundred and—­Oh, it is not Jones?’

’It is a name you won’t be likely to have once, let alone four hundred times!’ the lawyer answered, with a little pride—­heaven knows why.

‘What may it be, then?’ the clerk asked, fairly put on his mettle.  And he drew out a pair of glasses, and settling them on his forehead looked fixedly at his companion.

‘Fishwick.’

’Fishwick!  Fishwick?  Well, it is not a common name, and I cannot speak to it at this moment.  But if it is here, I’ll wager I’ll find it for you.  D’you see, I have them here in alphabet order,’ he continued, bustling with an important air to a cupboard in the wall, whence he produced a thick folio bound in roughened calf.  ’Ay, here’s Fishwick, in the burial book, do you see, volume two, page seventeen, anno domini 1750, seventeen years gone, that is.  Will you see it?  ’Twill be only a shilling.  There’s many pays out of curiosity to see their names.’

Mr. Fishwick shook his head.

‘Dods! man, you shall!’ the old clerk cried generously; and turned the pages.  ’You shall see it for what you have paid.  Here you are. “Fourteenth of September, William Fishwick, aged eighty-one, barber, West Quay, died the eleventh of the month.”  No, man, you are looking too low.  Higher on the page!  Here ’tis, do you see?  Eh—­what is it?  What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing,’ Mr. Fishwick muttered.  But he continued to stare at the page with a face struck suddenly sallow, while the hand that rested on the corner of the book shook as with the ague.

‘Nothing?’ the old man said, staring suspiciously at him.  ’I do believe it is something.  I do believe it is money.  Well, it is five shillings to extract.  So there!’

That seemed to change Mr. Fishwick’s view.  ‘It might be money,’ he confessed, still speaking thickly, and as if his tongue were too large for his mouth.  ‘It might be,’ he repeated.  ’But—­I am not very well this morning.  Do you think you could get me a glass of water?’

‘None of that!’ the old man retorted sharply, with a sudden look of alarm.  ’I would not leave you alone with that book at this moment for all the shillings I have taken!  So if you want water you’ve got to get it.’