The summery Chiffield answered, with a hearty laugh:  “I see,” said he; “it’s a regular sell on both sides.  However, neither of us is worse off than he was, since neither of us had anything.  As for me, I have gained one point, for I have a tolerably good-looking wife.”

Mr. Whedell was about to retort in a vein of unmitigated ferocity, when Mrs. Chiffield, who had been listening in the entry, and could contain herself no longer, rushed into the room, and, brandishing a small clenched hand in the face of her laughing spouse, forcibly observed: 

“You sneaking, swindling, cheating, lying, black-hearted, ill-looking pauper, scoundrel, and vagabond!”

“Very prettily said,” remarked the imperturbable Chiffield.

“You miserable thief!” continued his matrimonial partner, aiming a blow at him, which he playfully parried; “why didn’t you tell me you were a beggar?”

“Why?  Because you didn’t ask me.  For that matter, why didn’t you or your father tell me that you were beggars?”

“I sha’n’t answer your insulting questions, you mean, deceiving, ugly, ungentlemanly—­” (no other epithet suggesting itself.) At this crisis, the infuriated wife burst into tears, and wished several times that she was dead.

“Poor, dear wifey!” said the emollient Chiffield.

“None of your ‘poor dears’ to my daughter, you jailbird!” screamed Mr. Whedell.

“Now, don’t get excited, father-in-law.”

“How dare you call me father-in-law, sir!”

“Perhaps you prefer the more endearing epithet of ‘poppy,’ sir?”

“Monster! will you leave my house?”

“Have you any good old brandy on hand?” asked Chiffield.

“Brandy!  No.  If you want brandy, sir, go to the d—–­l for it.”

“Not quite so far, thank you,” retorted Chiffield the genial; “but I don’t mind walking to the next corner for a smash.”

Chiffield rose, put on his hat, and stepped toward the door.

“Good-by, wifey.  I sha’n’t be gone long.”

A growl, bisected by a sob, was the only reply.

“By-by, poppy,” said Chiffield, with a flippant wave of the hand.

Mr. Whedell cast at him a look of scorn, to which justice could be done in no known language; and Chiffield, with a bow of exceeding grace, left father and child to their reflections.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. WHEDEEL’S CREDITORS IN CONVENTION ASSEMBLED.

These reflections, which were neither profitable nor interesting to the parties immediately concerned, were interrupted by a peculiarly rigorous pull at the door bell.  Pulls of a startling description had come so often, the previous ten minutes, that Mr. Whedell had quite ceased to notice them.  But this long and strong pull caused him to start, and remark, “It must be Quigg.”

It was Quigg, who had come to make his last appeal.  He was by far the heaviest creditor.  The unfortunate servant girl, acting under her general instructions, would fain have shown him into the parlor, where his fellow sufferers, having overrun the library and dining room, were already in strong force; but Quigg, having immense interests at stake, would stand no such nonsense.