“Forgetful?” repeated the other.

“Forget to lay, like,” said Mr. Smith, musingly.

“Never mind about them,” said Mr. Miller, with some animation.  “I want you to do something for me.  If it comes off all right, I’ll give you a dozen hins and a couple of decentish-sized pigs.”

Mr. Smith called a halt.  “Decentish-sized” was vague.

“Take your pick,” said Mr. Miller.  “You know Mrs. Pullen’s got two thousand pounds—­”

“Wiggett’s going to have it,” said the other; “he as good as told me so.”

“He’s after her money,” said the other, sadly.  “Look ’ere, Smith, I want you to tell him she’s lost it all.  Say that Tidger told you, but you wasn’t to tell anybody else.  Wiggett ’ll believe you.”

Mr. Smith turned upon him a face all wrinkles, lit by one eye.  “I want the hins and the pigs first,” he said, firmly.

Mr. Miller, shocked at his grasping spirit, stared at him mournfully.

“And twenty pounds the day you marry Mrs. Pullen,” continued Mr. Smith.

Mr. Miller, leading him up and down the sawdust floor, besought him to listen to reason, and Mr. Smith allowed the better feelings of our common human nature to prevail to the extent of reducing his demands to half a dozen fowls on account, and all the rest on the day of the marriage.  Then, with the delightful feeling that he wouldn’t do any work for a week, he went out to drop poison into the ears of Mr. Wiggett.

“Lost all her money!” said the startled Mr. Wiggett.  “How?”

“I don’t know how,” said his friend.  “Tidger told me, but made me promise not to tell a soul.  But I couldn’t help telling you, Wiggett, ’cause I know what you’re after.”

“Do me a favour,” said the little man.

“I will,” said the other.

“Keep it from Miller as long as possible.  If you hear any one else talking of it, tell ’em to keep it from him.  If he marries her I’ll give you a couple of pints.”

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.