"I've knowed him nigh twenty years and I thought I did know him but I don't know him--there's developments--he's took to whistling of late.

Only this morning I heard him whistling o' this song 'Barbary Allen'

which same were a d.a.m.ned--no, a devilish--no, a con-founded barbarious young maid if words mean aught."

"True, she had no heart, Sergeant!"

"And a woman without an 'eart, mam----"

"A heart, Sergeant!"

"Aye, mam," said he, staring at the pincers, "a maid or woman without an 'eart is no good for herself or any----"

"Man!" suggested Mrs. Agatha, softly.

"True, mam, and speaking o' men brings us back to the Major and him a-whistling as merry as any grig."

"Grigs don't whistle, Sergeant."

"No more they do, mam, no--lark's the word. Also he's set on buying a noo wig, mam, and him with four brand-noo--almost, except his service wig which I'll grant you is a bit wore and moth-eaten like arter three campaigns which therefore aren't to be nowise wondered at. But what is to be wondered at is his honour troubling about suchlike when 'tis me as generally reports to him when garments is outwore and me as has done the ordering of same, these ten year and more. And now here's him wanting to buy a noo wig all at once! Mam, what I say is--damme!"

"Sergeant, ha' done!"

"Ax your pardon, mam, but 'tis so strange and onexpected. A noo wig!

Wants one more modish! Aye," said the Sergeant, shaking his head, "'modish' were the word, mam--'modish'! Now what I says to that is----"

"Sergeant, hush!"

"Why I ain't said it yet, mam----"

"Then don't!"

"Very well, mam!" he sighed. "But 'modish'----"

"And why shouldn't he be modish?" demanded Mrs. Agatha warmly, "he's young enough and handsome enough."

"He's all that, mam, yet----"

"Why should any man be slovenly and old before his time?"

"Aye, why indeed, mam but----"

"There's yourself, for instance."

"Who--me, mam?" exclaimed the Sergeant, hitting himself an amazed blow on the chest with the pincers, "me?"

"Aye, you! Not that you're slovenly, but you talk and act like a Methusalem instead of a--a careless boy of forty."

"Three, mam--forty-three."

"Aye, a helpless child of forty-three."

"Child!" murmured the Sergeant. "Helpless child--me? Now what I says to that is----"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Agatha, severely; but beholding his stupefaction she laughed merrily and taking up the peas, vanished into the kitchen, laughing still.

"Child--me--helpless child!" said the Sergeant, staring after her.

"Now what I says is----"

And there being none to hush him, the Sergeant, in English, French and Low Dutch, proceeded to "say it" forthwith.

CHAPTER VI

WHICH DESCRIBES, AMONG OTHER THINGS, A POACHER

The Major rubbed his chin with dubious finger, pushed back his wig and taking up the letter from the desk before him, broke the seal and read as follows:

"MY VERY DEAR UNCLE:

"Being in a somewhat low state of health and spirits--"

"Spirits!" said the Major. "Ha!"

"--induced by a too close application to my duties--"

"Hum!" quoth the Major, rubbing his chin harder than ever.

"--I purpose (subject to your permission) to inflict myself upon you--"

"The devil he does!"

"--having been ordered rest and quiet and country air."

"Hum! I wonder!" mused the Major.

"Pray spare yourself the fatigue of writing as I leave London at once and well knowing your extreme kindness I hope to have the felicity of greeting you within a day or so,

Your most grateful, humble and obedient nephew,