If the great Napoleon may be forgiven for losing his temper when at five in the afternoon from the slope of La Belle Alliance he watched the Prussians breaking through the opposite woods, while Grouchy yet tarried, let it be pleaded in excuse for Mr. Gavel that ever since eleven a.m. he had been awaiting the arrival of his six newly-painted horses.  The Birmingham decorator had pledged himself to deliver them early at Preston Bagot, and Mr. Gavel knew him for a man of his word.  He had made arrangements for their prompt conveyance to the field.  He did not doubt, but he was undeniably anxious.

Imagine, then, his feelings when at four o’clock or a little later a wagon—­the wagon of his hiring—­rolled into the enclosure bringing one horse only, and in place of the others a pile of tent-cloths and theatrical boxes, on which sat and smiled Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, his professional rivals.

He had been drinking ginger-ale all day, and in copious draughts.  It must be confessed that he lost his temper woefully, and so vociferously that Sir Elphinstone this time descended from the platform, and strode across the meadow to demand what the devil he meant by it.  Nor was even this the last drop in the cup of Mr. Gavel’s bitterness; for the baronet, struck by Mr. Mortimer’s appearance and genteel address, at once invited him to set up his tent and save the situation so desperately compromised.

Sam Bossom, perceiving that the wagon stood on ground well adapted for pitching a tent, cheerfully proceeded to unload.  Mr. Gavel watched in speechless rage.  Old Holly, the carrier, suggested that there was no need to give up hope of the horses.  They might turn up yet before dark.  Boats came down the canal at all hours of the day.

“Then why couldn’t you have waited and given ’em a chance?” foamed the proprietor; and commanding Holly to turn the empty wagon and follow, he strode off in the direction of the Wharf.  The afternoon was hot.  His furred coat oppressed him; his shoes—­of patent leather, bought ready-made—­pinched his feet.  On the road he came to a public-house, entered, and gulped down two “goes” of whisky.  Still the wagon lagged behind.  Re-emerging, he took the road again, his whole man hot within his furred coat as a teapot within a cosy.

In this temper, then, Mr. Gavel came to the wharf at Preston Bagot locks, and finding the Success to Commerce moored there with a tall man apparently in charge, demanded if he came from Birmingham.

“Or thereabouts,” answered the tall man, eyeing him.  “From there or thereabouts.  And, if I mistake not, you are the—­er—­person of whom I came in search.”

The man’s voice took Mr. Gavel somewhat aback.  It did not resemble an ordinary bargee’s.  But at the moment he could no more check the explosion of his wrath than you can hold back a cork in the act of popping from a bottle of soda-water.

“Curse your laziness!” exploded Mr. Gavel; “and this is your notion of searching for me, is it?”