Crowl, who was not a member of the Break o’ Day Club, was particularly anxious to hear the great orator whom he despised; fortunately Mortlake remembered the cobbler’s anxiety to hear himself, and on the eve of the ceremony sent him a ticket.  Crowl was in the first flush of possession when Denzil Cantercot returned, after a sudden and unannounced absence of three days.  His clothes were muddy and tattered, his cocked hat was deformed, his cavalier beard was matted, and his eyes were bloodshot.  The cobbler nearly dropped the ticket at the sight of him.  “Hallo, Cantercot!” he gasped.  “Why, where have you been all these days?”

“Terribly busy!” said Denzil.  “Here, give me a glass of water.  I’m dry as the Sahara.”

Crowl ran inside and got the water, trying hard not to inform Mrs. Crowl of their lodger’s return.  “Mother” had expressed herself freely on the subject of the poet during his absence, and not in terms which would have commended themselves to the poet’s fastidious literary sense.  Indeed, she did not hesitate to call him a sponger and a low swindler, who had run away to avoid paying the piper.  Her fool of a husband might be quite sure he would never set eyes on the scoundrel again.  However, Mrs. Crowl was wrong.  Here was Denzil back again.  And yet Mr. Crowl felt no sense of victory.  He had no desire to crow over his partner and to utter that “See! didn’t I tell you so?” which is a greater consolation than religion in most of the misfortunes of life.  Unfortunately, to get the water, Crowl had to go to the kitchen; and as he was usually such a temperate man, this desire for drink in the middle of the day attracted the attention of the lady in possession.  Crowl had to explain the situation.  Mrs. Crowl ran into the shop to improve it.  Mr. Crowl followed in dismay, leaving a trail of spilt water in his wake.

“You good-for-nothing, disreputable scare-crow, where have—­”

“Hush, mother.  Let him drink.  Mr. Cantercot is thirsty.”

“Does he care if my children are hungry?”

Denzil tossed the water greedily down his throat almost at a gulp, as if it were brandy.

“Madam,” he said, smacking his lips, “I do care.  I care intensely.  Few things in life would grieve me more deeply than to hear that a child, a dear little child—­the Beautiful in a nutshell—­had suffered hunger.  You wrong me.”  His voice was tremulous with the sense of injury.  Tears stood in his eyes.

“Wrong you?  I’ve no wish to wrong you,” said Mrs. Crowl.  “I should like to hang you.”

“Don’t talk of such ugly things,” said Denzil, touching his throat nervously.

“Well, what have you been doin’ all this time?”

“Why, what should I be doing?”

“How should I know what became of you?  I thought it was another murder.”

“What!” Denzil’s glass dashed to fragments on the floor.  “What do you mean?”