“That’s wrong,” said Mrs. Gimpson to her daughter, sharply.  “Right’s right any day, and truth’s truth.  He said that he knew all about John and what he’d been doing, but he wouldn’t tell us for fear of ’urting our feelings and making mischief.”

“Here, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, starting up; “I’ve ‘ad about enough o’ this.  Why don’t you speak out what you mean?  I’ll mischief ’im, the old humbug.  Old rascal.”

“Never mind, John,” said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm.  “Here you are safe and sound, and as for old Mr. Silver, there’s a lot o’ people don’t believe in him.”

“Ah! they don’t want to,” said Mrs. Gimpson, obstinately.  “But don’t forget that he foretold my cough last winter.”

“Well, look ’ere,” said Mr. Boxer, twisting his short, blunt nose into as near an imitation of a sneer as he could manage, “I’ve told you my story and I’ve got witnesses to prove it.  You can write to the master of the Marston Towers if you like, and other people besides.  Very well, then; let’s go and see your precious old fortune-teller.  You needn’t say who I am; say I’m a friend, and tell ’im never to mind about making mischief, but to say right out where I am and what I’ve been doing all this time.  I have my ’opes it’ll cure you of your superstitiousness.”

[Illustration:  “’Well, look ‘ere,’ said Mr. Boxer, ’I’ve told you my story and I’ve got witnesses to prove it.’”]

“We’ll go round after we’ve shut up, mother,” said Mrs. Boxer.  “We’ll have a bit o’ supper first and then start early.”

Mrs. Gimpson hesitated.  It is never pleasant to submit one’s superstitions to the tests of the unbelieving, but after the attitude she had taken up she was extremely loath to allow her son-in-law a triumph.

“Never mind, we’ll say no more about it,” she said, primly, “but I ’ave my own ideas.”

“I dessay,” said Mr. Boxer; “but you’re afraid for us to go to your old fortune-teller.  It would be too much of a show-up for ’im.”

“It’s no good your trying to aggravate me, John Boxer, because you can’t do it,” said Mrs. Gimpson, in a voice trembling with passion.

“O’ course, if people like being deceived they must be,” said Mr. Boxer; “we’ve all got to live, and if we’d all got our common sense fortune-tellers couldn’t.  Does he tell fortunes by tea-leaves or by the colour of your eyes?”

“Laugh away, John Boxer,” said Mrs. Gimpson, icily; “but I shouldn’t have been alive now if it hadn’t ha’ been for Mr. Silver’s warnings.”

“Mother stayed in bed for the first ten days in July,” explained Mrs. Boxer, “to avoid being bit by a mad dog.”

“Tchee—­tchee—­tchee,” said the hapless Mr. Boxer, putting his hand over his mouth and making noble efforts to restrain himself; “tchee—­tch

“I s’pose you’d ha’ laughed more if I ’ad been bit?” said the glaring Mrs. Gimpson.

“Well, who did the dog bite after all?” inquired Mr. Boxer, recovering.