“You will be wondering at the tantrums of the man Grimes, sir,—­of his ordering me and my comrade Peterday out of his cottage.  Sir—­I’ll tell you—­in two words.  It’s all owing to the sale—­up at the Farm, sir.  You see, Grimes is a great hand at buying things uncommonly cheap, and selling ’em—­uncommonly dear.  To-day it seems—­he was disappointed—­”

“Ah?” said Bellew.

“At exactly—­twenty-three minutes to six, sir,” said the Sergeant, consulting his large silver watch, “I were sitting in my usual corner—­beside the chimley, sir,—­when in comes Grimes—­like a thunder-cloud.—­Calls for a pint of ale—­in a tankard.  Tom draws pint—­which Tom is the landlord, sir.  ’Buy anything at the sale, Mr. Grimes?’ says Tom,—­’Sale!’ says Grimes, ‘sale indeed!’ and falls a cursing—­folk up at the Farm—­shocking—­outrageous.  Ends by threatening to foreclose mortgage—­within the month.  Upon which—­I raise a protest—­upon which he grows abusive,—­upon which I was forced to pour his ale over him,—­after which I ran him out into the road—­and there it is, you see.”

“And—­he threatened to foreclose the mortgage on Dapplemere Farm, did he, Sergeant!”

“Within the month, sir!—­upon which I warned him—­inn parlour no place—­lady’s private money troubles—­gaping crowd—­dammit!”

“And so he is turning you out of his cottage?”

“Within the week, sir,—­but then—­beer down the neck—­is rather unpleasant!” and here the Sergeant uttered a short laugh, and was immediately grave again.  “It isn’t,” he went on, “it isn’t as I mind the inconvenience of moving, sir—­though I shall be mighty sorry to leave the old place, still, it isn’t that so much as the small corner cup-board, and my bookshelf by the chimley.  There never was such a cup-board,—­no sir,—­there never was a cup-board so well calculated to hold a pair o’ jack boots, not to mention spurs, highlows, burnishers, shoulder-chains, polishing brushes, and—­a boot-jack, as that same small corner cup-board.  As for the book-shelf beside the chimley, sir—­exactly three foot three,—­sunk in a recess—­height, the third button o’ my coat,—­capacity, fourteen books.  You couldn’t get another book on that shelf—­no, not if you tried with a sledge-hammer, or a hydraulic engine.  Which is highly surprising when you consider that fourteen books is the true, and exact number of books as I possess.”

“Very remarkable!” said Bellew.

“Then again,—­there’s my comrade,—­Peter Day (The Sergeant pronounced it as though it were all one word).  Sir, my comrade Peterday is a very remarkable man,—­most cobblers are.  When he’s not cobbling, he’s reading,—­when not reading, he’s cobbling, or mending clocks, and watches, and, betwixt this and that, my comrade has picked up a power of information,—­though he lost his leg a doing of it—­in a gale of wind—­off the Cape of Good Hope, for my comrade was a sailor, sir.  Consequently he is a handy man, most sailors are and makes his own wooden legs, sir, he is also a musician—­the tin whistle, sir,—­and here we are!”