Mr. Killigrew approved of Ishmael; he liked his keenness on whatever appertained to his trade as an agriculturist, and he himself being concerned in the import of several tropical fruits and products, went with the young man to the great Horticultural Show at South Kensington, while the scornful Joe betook himself to the races; and Mrs. Killigrew, though she declined both outings, was sure that they would be very nice.

They were—­though Killigrew lost so much money that he was afraid to come home and spent the night imbibing champagne and repentance at the Hummums, and Ishmael bought Indian corn and a kind of yam which he thought could be induced to flourish in West Penwith, which incidentally it did so far as foliage went, though it always obstinately refused to bear fruit.  The following mid-day Joe sent for Ishmael to the Hummums, and from that comfortable if somewhat dingy hostelry set out, in the gayest spirits, to track down a money-lender who would oblige on no better security than his assurance that the Guv’nor would pay up when he had got over the shock.

Success in this put Killigrew into the wildest spirits, and he forthwith took unto himself a young man whom he ran into as he and Ishmael were going into the Blue Posts for a before-dinner drink.  The young man was none other than Carminow, grown very tall and melancholy-looking, with an extravagantly high collar, much swathed with a voluminous black silk cravat and a fancy waistcoat.  Carminow, who under a manner of deepest gloom concealed a nature as kind and as disconcertingly morbid as of yore, was unaffectedly charmed to see his old schoolfellows, and said so.  He had better control over the letter “r” than in his boyhood, but his employment of it was still uncertain and quite irrational.  He linked an arm in each and said gravely:  “Will you come with me to see the execution at Newgate to-mowwow morning?  They are twying new experiments with the dwop, and it should be intewesting.”

“No—­are you serious?” demanded Killigrew.  “I say, I’ve half a mind to....  It might make a jolly fine sketch, mightn’t it?  Kept quite rough and suggestive, you know.”

“It’d be suggestive all right,” remarked Ishmael.  Within him a wish to accept warred with horror, besides which he could not quite make up his mind whether Carminow were joking or no.

“Splendid,” said Carminow; “there’s just one moment, when the hangman pulls on the legs, to make sure, you understand—­and the face swells till it looks as though it would burst the white cap pulled over it, for all the world like a boiling pudding....  And you see the cawotid artewy become suffused with a blue bwuise—­”

“Cobalt and a touch of garance,” threw in Killigrew.

“Shut up, Carminow,” said Ishmael; “we’ve not had our drinks yet if you have.”  He was rather proud of this, which sounded to him to have quite a man-about-town twang, and he knew it must have been successful when he saw his companions pass it without ribald comment.