“Ah, an’ I daresay it came into your head that if you had the orderin’ of Bussa you wouldn’ be long about it?  The town’ll think it, anyway.  We’re a small popilation in Troy, all tied up in neighbourly feelin’s an’ hangin’ together till—­as the sayin’ is—­you can’t touch a cobweb without hurtin’ a rafter.  What the town’s cryin’ out for is a new broom—­a man with ideas, eh, Mr Philp?—­above all, a man who’s independent.  So first of all they’ll flatter ye up into standin’ for the Parish Council, and put ye head o’ the poll—­”

“Tut, man!” interrupted Captain Cai, flushing a little.  “What do I know about such things?  Not o’ course that I shan’t take an interest—­as a ratepayer—­”

“To be sure.  I heard a man say, only last Saturday, sittin’ in that very chair, as there was never a ship’s captain hauled ashore but in three weeks he’d be ready to teach the Chancellor of th’ Exchequer his business an’ inclined to wonder how soon he’d be offered the job.”

“A ship’s captain needn’t be altogether a born fool.”

“No:  an’ next you’ll be bent on larnin’ to speak in public; and takin’ occasions to practise, secondin’ votes o’ thanks an’ such like.  After that you’ll be marryin’ a wife—­”

“I don’t want to marry a wife, I tell ’ee!”

“Who said you did?  Well, then, you’ll get married—­they dotes on a public man as a rule; and for tanglin’ a man up in habits there’s no snare like wedlock, not in the whole world.  I’ve known scores o’ men get married o’ purpose to break clear o’ their habits an’ take a fresh start; but ne’er a man that didn’t tie himself up thereby in twenty new habits for e’er a one he’d let drop.”

“Go on with your folly, if it amuses you.”

“Then, again, you’ve taken a house.”

“So Rogers tells me.  I don’t even know the rent, at this moment.”

“Twenty-five pound p’r annum,” put in Mr Philp.  Captain Cai—­released just then from his wrapper—­turned and stared at him.

“I had it from the Postmistress,” Mr Philp’s tone was matter-of-fact, his gaze unabashed.  “Bein’ paralytic, Rogers did your business with the widow by letter; he keeps a type-writin’ machine an’ pays Tabb’s girl three shillin’ a-week to work it.  The paper’s thin, as I’ve had a mind to warn ’er more than once.”

“’Twould be a Christian act,” suggested Mr Toy.  “If there’s truth in half what folks say, some of old Johnny Rogers’ correspondence ’d make pretty readin’ for the devil.”

“But look here,” interposed Captain Cai, “what’s this about doin’ business with a widow? Whose widow?”

“Why, your landlady, to be sure—­the Widow Bosenna, up to Rilla Farm.”

“No—­stop a minute—­take that blessed latherin’-brush out o’ my mouth!  You don’t tell me old Bosenna’s dead, up there?”