of the trembling Mrs. Boxer.
“I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.”
Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed over to her husband.
“Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.”
Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said, doggedly.
“It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.”
“What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,” said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself what you believe.”
“I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly.
Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.
“That’s right,” he said, cheerfully. “So long as you believe in me I don’t care what other people think. And before I’m much older I’ll find out how that old rascal got to know the names of the ships I was aboard. Seems to me somebody’s been talking.”
BLUNDELL’S IMPROVEMENT
Venia Turnbull in a quiet, unobtrusive fashion was enjoying herself. The cool living-room at Turnbull’s farm was a delightful contrast to the hot sunshine without, and the drowsy humming of bees floating in at the open window was charged with hints of slumber to the middle-aged. From her seat by the window she watched with amused interest the efforts of her father—kept from his Sunday afternoon nap by the assiduous attentions of her two admirers—to maintain his politeness.
“Father was so pleased to see you both come in,” she said, softly; “it’s very dull for him here of an afternoon with only me.”
“I can’t imagine anybody being dull with only you,” said Sergeant Dick Daly, turning a bold brown eye upon her.
Mr. John Blundell scowled; this was the third time the sergeant had said the thing that he would have liked to say if he had thought of it.
“I don’t mind being dull,” remarked Mr. Turnbull, casually.
Neither gentleman made any comment.
“I like it,” pursued Mr. Turnbull, longingly; “always did, from a child.”
The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell sat his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull almost groaned as he remembered his tenacity.
“The garden’s looking very nice,” he said, with a pathetic glance round.
“Beautiful,” assented the sergeant. “I saw it yesterday.”
“Some o’ the roses on that big bush have opened a bit more since then,” said the farmer.
Sergeant Daly expressed his gratification, and said that he was not surprised. It was only ten days since he had arrived in the village on a visit to a relative, but in that short space of time he had, to the great discomfort of Mr. Blundell, made himself wonderfully at home at Mr. Turnbull’s. To Venia he related strange adventures by sea and land, and on subjects of which he was sure the farmer knew nothing he was a perfect mine of information. He began to talk in low tones to Venia, and the heart of Mr. Blundell sank within him as he noted her interest. Their voices fell to a gentle murmur, and the sergeant’s sleek, well-brushed head bent closer to that of his listener. Relieved from his attentions, Mr. Turnbull fell asleep without more ado.
Blundell sat neglected, the unwilling witness of a flirtation he was powerless to prevent. Considering her limited opportunities, Miss Turnbull displayed a proficiency which astonished him. Even the sergeant was amazed, and suspected her of long practice.
“I wonder whether it is very hot outside?” she said, at last, rising and looking out of the window.
“Only pleasantly warm,” said the sergeant. “It would be nice down by the water.”
“I’m afraid of disturbing father by our talk,” said the considerate daughter. “You might tell him we’ve gone for a little stroll when he wakes,” she added, turning to Blundell.
Mr. Blundell, who had risen with the idea of acting the humble but, in his opinion, highly necessary part of chaperon, sat down again and watched blankly from the window until they were out of sight. He was half inclined to think that the exigencies of the case warranted him in arousing the farmer at once.
It was an hour later when the farmer awoke, to find himself alone with Mr. Blundell, a state of affairs for which he strove with some pertinacity to make that aggrieved gentleman responsible.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” he demanded. “Because I wasn’t asked,” replied the other.
Mr. Turnbull sat up in his chair and eyed him disdainfully. “For a great, big chap like you are, John Blundell,” he exclaimed, “it’s surprising what a little pluck you’ve got.”
“I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted,” retorted Mr. Blundell.
“That’s where you make a mistake,” said the other, regarding him severely; “girls like a masterful man, and, instead of getting your own way, you sit down quietly and do as you’re told, like a tame—tame—”
“Tame what?” inquired Mr. Blundell, resentfully.
“I don’t know,” said the other, frankly; “the tamest thing you can think of. There’s Daly laughing in his sleeve at you, and talking to Venia about Waterloo and the Crimea as though he’d been there. I thought it was pretty near settled between you.”
“So did I,” said Mr. Blundell.
“You’re a big man, John,” said the other, “but you’re slow. You’re all muscle and no head.”
“I think of things afterward,” said Blundell, humbly; “generally after I get to bed.”
Mr. Turnbull sniffed, and took a turn up and down the room; then he closed the door and came toward his friend again.
“I dare say you’re surprised at me being so anxious to get rid of Venia,” he said, slowly, “but the fact is I’m thinking of marrying again myself.”
“You!” said the startled Mr. Blundell.
“Yes, me,” said the other, somewhat sharply. “But she won’t marry so long as Venia is at home. It’s a secret, because if Venia got to hear of it she’d keep single to prevent it. She’s just that sort of girl.”
Mr. Blundell coughed, but did not deny it. “Who is it?” he inquired.
“Miss Sippet,” was the reply. “She couldn’t hold her own for half an hour against Venia.”
Mr. Blundell, a great stickler for accuracy, reduced the time to five minutes.
“And now,” said the aggrieved Mr. Turnbull, “now, so far as I can see, she’s struck with Daly. If she has him it’ll be years and years before they can marry. She seems crazy about heroes. She was talking to me the other night about them. Not to put too fine a point on it, she was talking about you.”
Mr. Blundell blushed with pleased surprise.
“Said you were not a hero,” explained Mr. Turnbull. “Of course, I stuck up for you. I said you’d got too much sense to go putting your life into danger. I said you were a very careful man, and I told her how particular you was about damp sheets. Your housekeeper told me.”
“It’s all nonsense,” said Blundell, with a fiery face. “I’ll send that old fool packing if she can’t keep her tongue quiet.”
“It’s very sensible of you,