“So you was,” agreed Abe, pulling out his pipe.  “You can’t think what a comfort that is to me.  But, as it turns out, ’twouldn’t have made no difference.  For she see’d you last evenin’, and she was tellin’ me just now that prison hadn’t improved you.  In fact she didn’t like either your looks or your behaviour.”

I’ve heard that he was just in time to pop inside and bolt the door after him.  And now you know why Billy Bosistow and Abe Cummins could never bear the sight of each other from that day.  But there! you can’t be first and last too, as the saying is.

[1] Givet in the Ardennes.  The river, of course, is the Meuse.

[2] Probably Briancon in the Hautes Alpes.

[3] Performers in a Christmas Play.

A TOWN’S MEMORY

A PENDANT TO THE FOREGOING

The returned Emigrant was not one of those who sometimes creep back to Tregarrick and scan the folk wistfully and the names over the shops till they bethink themselves of stepping up the hill to take a look at the cemetery, and there find all they sought.  This man stood under the archway of the Pack-horse Inn (by A. Walters), with his soft hat tilted over his nose, a cigar in his mouth, hands in his trouser pockets, and legs a-straddle, and smoked and eyed the passers-by with a twinkle of humour.

He knew them all again, or nearly all.  He had quitted Tregarrick for the Cape at the age of fifteen, under the wing of a cousin from the Mining District, had made money out there, and meant to return to make more, and was home just now on a holiday, with gold in his pocket and the merest trace of silver in his hair.  He watched the people passing, and it all seemed very queer to him and amusing.

They were one and all acting and behaving just as they had used to act and behave.  Some were a trifle greyer, perhaps, and others stooped a bit; but they went about their business in the old fashion, and their occupations had not changed.  It was just as if he had wound up a clockwork toy before leaving England, and had returned after many years to find it still working.  Here came old Dymond, the postman, with the usual midday delivery, light as ever, and the well-remembered dot-and-go-one gait.  The maids who came out to take the letters were different; in one of them the Emigrant recognised a little girl who had once sat facing him in the Wesleyan day-school; but the bells that fetched them out were those on which he had sounded runaway peals in former days, and with his eyes shut he could have sworn to old Dymond’s double-knock.  The cart that rattled its load of empty cans up the street belonged to Nicholas Retallack ("Old Nick"), the milkman, and that was Retallack beside it, returning from his morning round.  The Emigrant took the cigar from his mouth and blew a lazy cloud.  But for Retallack he might never have seen South Africa or known Johannesburg.  Retallack had caught him surreptitiously milking the Alderney into a battered straw hat, and had threatened a summons.  There had been a previous summons with a conviction, and the Mayor had hinted at the Reformatory, so the Emigrant had been packed off.  And here he was, back again; and here was Retallack trudging around, the same as ever.