“Did the gong sound, Marjorie?”

“To be sure it did.  Tell me, what were you thinking about not to hear it?”

“I was thinking about a dear little girl called Marjorie,” answered the prevaricating lawyer, picking the child up and bestowing a hearty salute upon her lips.

“You’re a very good boy now, Eugene; you get a clean shave every day.  Do you go to Collingwood for it in the night time, when I am in bed?”

“No, Marjorie; I get the cat to lick my face,” the untruthful man replied.

“What? our pussy Felina that spits at Muggy?”

“The very same.”

“Then I’ll ask Tryphosa’s father if he would like to have the loan of Felina.  Don’t you think she would do him good.”

Coristine laughed, as he thought of Mr. Hill’s stubbly countenance, and carried “the darlin’” into the house.

At the dinner table he found himself punished for his day-dreaming.  Bangs was on one side of Miss Carmichael, and Bigglethorpe on the other, and he was out in the cold, between the latter gentleman and the minister.  Mr. Bigglethorpe resumed the subject of fishing, and interrogated his right hand neighbour as to his success at the River.  He laughed over the so-called mullets, and expressed a fisherman’s contempt for them as devourers of valuable spawn, relating also the fact that, in the spring, when they swarm up into shallow parts of the stream, the farmers shovel them out with large wooden scoops, and feed them to the pigs or fertilize the land with them.  Finding he had more than one auditor, the fishing store-keeper questioned the Squire about the contents of his brook, and, learning that dace, chubs, and crayfish were its only occupants, promised to send Mrs. Carruthers a basket of trout when the season came round.  In order to give a classical turn to the conversation, the dominie mentioned the name of Isaac Walton and referred to his poor opinion of the chub in the river Lea.  “I know the Lea like a book,” said Mr. Bigglethorpe, “and a dirty, muddy ditch it has got to be since old Isaac’s time.  When I was a schoolboy I went there fishing one afternoon with some companions, and caught not a single fish, hardly got a nibble.  We were going home disappointed, when we saw a man at the reservoir above the river, near the Lea bridge, with some eels in a basket.  They were queer looking eels, but we bought them for sixpence, and one of our fellows, called Wickens, put them in his fishing can; then we maide for home.  Before we could get there we had to cross a pretty rough part of the Kingsland road.  It was pretty dark, but, of course, the shops were all lit up and we sawr a lot of boys, common cads, coming our wy.  Just in front of a public house they called out ‘Boots, Boots! fish, fish!’ and out caime a stout lad of about eighteen to lead the gang.  Three of us clubbed our rods over them, briking the top joints, of course, but Wickens wouldn’t fall in with us.  So Boots ran after him, followed by a crowd.  When Wickens sawr he couldn’t escype, he opened his can, took out an eel and slapped it over Boots’ fyce.  The beggar just yelled, ‘O, Lawr, water snykes!’ and he ran, and Wickens after the crowd like mad, slashing ’em with the water snykes.  O dear, O dear, I shall never forget those snykes to my dying dy.”