Mr. Smith promised faithfully, and both the Tidgers and Mrs. Pullen were surprised to find that Mr. Miller was the only visitor that evening.  He spoke but little, and that little in a slow, ponderous voice intended for Mrs. Pullen’s ear alone.  He spoke disparagingly of money, and shook his head slowly at the temptations it brought in its train.  Give him a crust, he said, and somebody to halve it with—­a home-made crust baked by a wife.  It was a pretty picture, but somewhat spoiled by Mrs. Tidger suggesting that, though he had spoken of halving the crust, he had said nothing about the beer.

“Half of my beer wouldn’t be much,” said the dealer, slowly.

“Not the half you would give your wife wouldn’t,” retorted Mrs. Tidger.

The dealer sighed and looked mournfully at Mrs. Pullen.  The lady sighed in return, and finding that her admirer’s stock of conversation seemed to be exhausted, coyly suggested a game of draughts.  The dealer assented with eagerness, and declining the offer of a glass of beer by explaining that he had had one the day before yesterday, sat down and lost seven games right off.  He gave up at the seventh game, and pushing back his chair, said that he thought Mrs. Pullen was the most wonderful draught-player he had ever seen, and took no notice when Mrs. Tidger, in a dry voice charged with subtle meaning, said that she thought he was.

“Draughts come natural to some people,” said Mrs. Pullen, modestly.  “It’s as easy as kissing your fingers.”

Mr. Miller looked doubtful; then he put his great fingers to his lips by way of experiment, and let them fall unmistakably in the widow’s direction.  Mrs. Pullen looked down and nearly blushed.  The carpenter and his wife eyed each other in indignant consternation.

“That’s easy enough,” said the dealer, and repeated the offense.

Mrs. Pullen got up in some confusion, and began to put the draught-board away.  One of the pieces fell on the floor, and as they both stooped to recover it their heads bumped.  It was nothing to the dealer’s, but Mrs. Pullen rubbed hers and sat down with her eyes watering.  Mr. Miller took out his handkerchief, and going to the scullery, dipped it into water and held it to her head.

“Is it better?” he inquired.

“A little better,” said the victim, with a shiver.

Mr. Miller, in his emotion, was squeezing the handkerchief hard, and a cold stream was running down her neck.

“Thank you.  It’s all right now.”

The dealer replaced the handkerchief, and sat for some time regarding her earnestly.  Then the carpenter and his wife displaying manifest signs of impatience, he took his departure, after first inviting himself for another game of draughts the following night.

He walked home with the air of a conqueror, and thought exultingly that the two thousand pounds were his.  It was a deal after his own heart, and not the least satisfactory part about it was the way he had got the better of Wiggett.