“We shall live here alone,” he resumed.  “It is even possible that, to ensure solitude, I shall rent the cottage as well, and install you there.  Above all things, remember,” with sudden sternness, “that no woman is to come near this house—­I shall even expect you to do your utmost to prevent their landing on the quay below.  That, I think, is all.  I now wish you to row down to the station and get my portmanteau.  After that, with this money procure a couple of hammocks, besides provisions and whatever will be necessary for the night, not forgetting soap and candles.  To-morrow we will take in further stock.”

Caleb was about to make some answer when the garden gate creaked heavily, and Peter Dearlove appeared in the dusk outside the window; so he merely took the money, touched his forelock by way of acknowledging his new employment, and retired.  But it was noticeable that once or twice on his way to the boat he had to pull himself up and think a bit.  Arrived on the quay, too, he stood for a moment or so beside the boat in profound meditation.

“Come, Caleb Trotter!” he exclaimed, suddenly jumping in and seizing the paddles; “this sort o’ thing won’t do, nohow.  Here you be paid for lookin’ arter a gentl’m’n as wanders in hes wits, and fust news es, you be doin’ the same yoursel’.  ’Tes terribul queer, though,” he added, and with that began to row towards town with an energy that set the boat quivering.

When he returned, in less than two hours’ time, he found Mr. Fogo with a barrel full of water and the stump of a decayed broom, washing out the back kitchen.  The Twin had gone.

“Here we be, sir.  Pound o’ candles, pound o’ tea, two loaves o’ bread, knives, forks, two cups, three eggs—­one on ’em smashed, in my trowsy pocket—­saucepan, kettle, tea-pot, an’ a hunk o’ cold beef as salt as Lot’s wife’s elbow.  That’s the fust load.  There’s more in the boat, but I must ax’ee to bear a hand wi’ thicky portmanty o’ youm, ’cos ‘tes mortal heavy.  I see’d Jan Higgs’s wife a-fishin’ about two hundred yards from the quay, on my way up, an’ warned her to keep her distance.  There’s a well o’ water round at the back, an’ I’ve fetched a small sack o’ coal, and ef us don’t have a dish o’ tay ready in a brace o’ shakes, then Tom’s killed an’ Mary’s forlorn.”

With the statement of which gloomy alternative Mr. Caleb Trotter broke into a smile of honest pride.

“Caleb,” said Mr. Fogo from his hammock in the back kitchen at about eleven o’clock on the same night.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“Thank’ee, sir, gettin’ on nicely.  Just a bit Man-Fridayish to begin wi’, but as corrat as Crocker’s mare.”

“What did you say?”

“Figger o’ speech agen, sir, that’s all.  Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, Caleb.”

Mr. Fogo settled himself in his hammock, sighed for a second time and dropped asleep.