In his own untidy little den at the back of the house he sat for some time deep in thought over the events of the afternoon.  He had been permitted a peep at wealth; at wealth, too, which was changing hands, but was not coming his way.  He lit his pipe and, producing a bottle of rum from a cupboard, helped himself liberally.  The potent fluid softened him somewhat, and a half-formed intention to keep the news from Mr. Kybird melted away beneath its benign influence.

“After all, we’ve been pals for pretty near thirty years,” said Mr. Smith to himself.

He took another draught.  “Thirty years is a long time,” he mused.

He finished the glass.  “And if ’e don’t give me something out of it I’ll do ’im as much ’arm as I can,” he continued; and, buttoning up his coat, he rose and set out in the direction of the High Street.

The rain had ceased and the sun was making faint efforts to break through watery clouds.  Things seemed brighter, and Mr. Smith’s heart beat in response.  He was going to play the part of a benefactor to Mr. Kybird; to offer him access, at any rate, to such wealth as he had never dreamed of.  He paused at the shop window, and, observing through a gap in the merchandise that Mr. Kybird was be-hind the counter, walked in and saluted him.

“I’ve got news for you,” he said, slowly; “big news.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Kybird, with indifference.

“Big news,” repeated Mr. Smith, sinking thoughtlessly into the broken cane-chair and slowly extricating himself.  “Something that’ll make your eyes start out of your ’ed.”

The small black eyes in question were turned shrewdly in his direction.  “I’ve ’ad news of you afore, Nat,” remarked Mr. Kybird, with simple severity.

The philanthropist was chilled; he fixed his eyes in a stony stare on the opposite wall.  Mr. Kybird, who had ever a wholesome dread of falling a victim to his friend’s cuteness, regarded him with some uncertainty, and reminded him of one or two pieces of information which had seriously depleted his till.

“Banns up yet for the wedding?” inquired Mr. Smith, still gazing in front of him with fathomless eyes.

“They’ll be put up next week,” said Mr. Kybird.

“Ah!” said his friend, with great emphasis.  “Well, well!”

“Wot d’ye mean by ’well, well’?” demanded the other, with some heat.

“I was on’y thinking,” replied Mr. Smith, mildly.  “P’r’aps it’s all for the best, and I’d better ’old my tongue.  True love is better than money.  After all it ain’t my bisness, and I shouldn’t get much out of it.”

“Out of wot, Nat?” inquired Mr. Kybird, uneasily.

Mr. Smith, still gazing musingly before him, appeared not to hear the question.  “Nice after the rain, ain’t it?” he said, slowly.

“It’s all right,” said the other, shortly.

“Everything smells so fresh and sweet,” continued his nature-loving friend; “all the little dickey-birds was a-singing as if their little ’arts would break as I come along.”