“The Tiger,” he iterated.

“With Georgie?”

“With Georgie.”

“But what will uncle say?  I shouldn’t be surprised if uncle has never been in the Tiger in his life.  You know his views—­”

“I don’t care twopence for your uncle,” said George, again implicitly blaming Mary for the peculiarities of her uncle’s character.  “Something’s got to be done, and I’m going to do it.”

IV

Two days later, at about ten o’clock in the morning, Samuel Peel, J.P., entered the market-place, Bursley, from the top of Oldcastle Street.  He had walked down, as usual, from his dignified residence at Hillport.  It was his day for the Bench, and he had, moreover, a lot of complicated election business.  On a dozen hoardings between Hillport and Bursley market-place blazed the red letters of his posters inviting the faithful to vote for Peel, whose family had been identified with the district for a century and a half.  He was pleased with these posters, and with the progress of canvassing.  A slight and not a tall man, with a feeble grey beard and a bald head, he was yet a highly-respected figure in the town.  He had imposed himself upon the town by regular habits, strict morals, a reasonable philanthropy, and a successful career.  He had, despite natural disadvantages, upheld on high the great name of Peel.  So that he entered the town on that fine morning with a certain conquering jauntiness.  And citizens saluted him with respect and he responded with benignity.

And as, nearly opposite that celebrated hotel, the Tiger, he was about to cross over to the eastern porch of the Town Hall, he saw a golden-haired man approaching him with a perambulator.  And the sight made him pause involuntarily.  It was a strange sight.  Then he recognized his nephew-in-law.  And he blanched, partly from excessive astonishment, but partly from fear.

“How do, uncle?” said George, nonchalantly, as though he had parted from him on the previous evening.  “Just hang on to this pram a sec., will you?” And, pushing the perambulator towards Samuel Peel, J.P., George swiftly fled, and, for the perfection of his uncle-in-law’s amazement, disappeared into the Tiger.

Then the occupant of the perambulator began to weep.

The figure of Samuel Peel, dressed as a Justice of the Peace should be dressed for the Bench, in a frock-coat and a ceremonious necktie, and (of course) spats over his spotless boots; the figure of Samuel Peel, the wrinkled and dry bachelor (who never in his life had held a saucepan of infant’s food over a gas-jet in the middle of the night), this figure staring horror-struck through spectacles at the loud contents of the perambulator, soon excited attention in the market-place of Bursley.  And Mr Peel perceived the attention.