her for herself, and wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.  Why—­God forgive me—­I even said I’d throw myself in the river if she refused again!  But there it was:  she yielded, and I kissed her, and she very near fainted with excitement.  And I want you to understand this, Rupert Blake:  I’m not after her stuff, nor her farm, nor nothing that’s worth a penny to any man.  Her will must be made again, but everything goes back to you and yours.  I only ask to stop along with her till I’m called:  for I’m alone in the world and shouldn’t like to be thrust out.  And if Mary goes first, then I ordain that you let me bide to my dying day in comfort out of respect to her memory.  And that’s all I ask or want.”

I didn’t see how the man could say fairer than that, and more did my wife.  And it all went very suent I’m sure.  They was wedded, and spent eight fairly happy years together, and Bob knew his place till Mary’s dying day.  He didn’t kill himself with work after he’d got her; and he wasn’t at church as regular as of old; but he pleasured her very willing most times, and was always kind and considerate and attentive; and if ever they had a word, only them and their Maker knew about it.

She loved him, and she loved the ring he put on her finger, and she loved signing herself “Mary Battle”—­never tired of that.  And then she died, and he bided on till he was a very old, ancient man, with my son to help him.  And then he died too, and was buried along with his wife.  He was always self-contained and self-respecting.  He took his luck for granted and never made no fuss about it; and such was his character that no man ever envied him his good fortune.  In fact, I do believe that everybody quite agreed with his own opinion:  that he hadn’t got any more than he deserved—­if as much.

No.  V

WHEN FOX WAS FERRYMAN

We Dittisham folk live beside Dart river and at what you may call a crossing.  For there’s a lot of people go back and forth over the water between us and Greenway on t’other bank, and so the ferryman is an important member of the community, and we often date things that happen by such a man who reigned over the ferry at the time, just as we think of what fell out when such a king reigned over the country.

And this curious adventure came to be when Fox was ferryman, and nobody had better cause to remember it than old Jimmy Fox himself, for to him the tale belongs in a manner of speaking, though you may be sure he wasn’t the man who used to tell it.

Jimmy Fox not only ran the ferry, but he was master of the ‘Passage House’ inn, a public that stood just up top of the steps on the Dittisham landing, and as this was the spot where passengers crossed, and there weren’t no beer at Greenway, they naturally took their last drink at the ‘Passage House’ before setting forth, and their first drink there on landing.  So it rose to be a prosperous inn enough.  Mrs. Fox was the ruling spirit there, because her husband spent most of his daytime working the ferry boat; but Polly Fox—­most people called her ‘the Vixen’ behind her back—­had two to help her in the shape of Christie Morrison, a niece of her husband’s, and Alice Chick, the barmaid—­a good sort of girl enough.