“I don’t see that it’s any business of yours what my father pays for his house!” said I, my flush of pleasure changing to one of annoyance.

I glanced round for Captain Coffin’s support, but he had walked indoors, no doubt in despair of Mr. Goodfellow’s loquacity.

“No?” queried Mr. Goodfellow.  “No, I dare say not; but you just wait till you fall in love.  It’s a most curious feelin’.  First of all it makes you want to pull off your coat and turn a hand to anything, from breakin’ stones to playing the fiddle—­it don’t matter what, so long as you sweat an’ feel you’re earnin’ money.  Why, just take a look at my business card!” He stepped to his coat, pulled one from his pocket, and glanced over it proudly:  ’George Goodfellow, Carpenter and Decorater—­Cabinet Making in all its Branches—­Repairs neatly executed—­Funerals and Shipping supplied—­Practical Valuer, and for Probate—­Fire Office claims prepared and adjusted—­Good Berths booked on all the Packets, and guaranteed by personal inspection—­Boats built and designed—­Instruction in the Violin—­Old instruments cleaned and repaired, or taken in exchange—­Rowboat for hire.’  “There, put it in your pocket and take it away with you.  I’ve plenty more in my desk.”

“That’s what it feels like, bein’ in love,” continued Mr. Goodfellow.  “And, next thing, it makes you take a termenjus interest in houses—­ houses an’ furnicher an’ the price o’ things—­right down to butter, as you might say.  I never see a house, now—­leastways, a house that takes my fancy—­but I want to be measuring it an’ planning out the furnicher, an’ the rent, an’ where to stow the firewood, an’ sitting down cosy in it along with Martha—­in the mind’s eyes, as you may say—­one on each side o’ the fire, an’ making two ends meet.  I pity any man that ends a bachelor.”  He glanced towards the house.  “By the way, how do you get along with Coffin?”

“He—­he seems very kind.”

“Tis’n his way with boys as a rule.”  Mr. Goodfellow tapped his forehand with the end of his two-foot rule.  “Upper story,” he announced.

“You think so?”

“Sure of it.  Cracked as a bell.  Not,” said Mr. Goodfellow, picking up a saw and making ready to cut the plank lengthwise to his measurements—­“not that there’s any harm in the man, until he gets foul of the drink.  The tale is he gets his money out o’ Government—­ a sort of pension.  Was mixed up in the Spithead Mutiny, by one account, an’ turned informer; but there’s another tale he earned it by some hanky-panky over in Lisbon, when the Royal Family there packed up traps from the Brazils; and that’s the story I favour, for (between you and me) I’ve seen Portugal money in his possession.”

So, indeed, had I. But Captain Coffin himself cut short the talk at this point by appearing and announcing from the back doorstep that he had a treat for me if I would come inside.