“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” replied Mrs. Flood, with a small and vicious titter; not because she believed him to be guilty or that it would do any good, but simply because her instinct told her it would hurt.

“That seems to close the discussion.”  Parson Jack bowed with honest, if clumsy, dignity.  “I am sorry, madam, for what you have told me; but my regrets had better be expressed to Major Bromham.”

“Regrets, indeed!” sniffed Mrs. Flood.

And these were the last words he ever heard from her.  A minute later he found himself in the street, walking towards the Hoe and drawing deep breaths as his lungs felt the sea-breeze.  He had not the least notion of his direction; but as he went he muttered to himself; and for a parson’s his words sounded deplorably like swearing.

“Hi! hi!” called a shrill voice behind him.  He swung right about and found himself frowning down upon Master Dick.

“How did you like it?” inquired that youngster, panting.  “She’s a caution, the mater; but it wasn’t a patch on what I’ve heard her promise to give you if ever she sets eyes on you.”

“Indeed?  How do you know, pray?”

“Why, I listened at the door, of course,” was the unabashed reply.  “But I don’t believe a word of it, you know,” he added reassuringly.

“A word of what?”

“That rot about undue influence.”

“I thank you.  Did you follow me to tell me this?”

“Well, I dunno.  Yes, I guess I did.  You’re a white man; I saw that at once, though you do smoke a clay pipe.”

“Thank you again for the reminder.”  Parson Jack pulled out his clay and filled it.  “So I’m a white man?”

Dick nodded.  “I’m not saying anything about the legacy.  That’s hard lines on us, of course; but I believe you.  There’s no chance of my being a gentleman now, like you; but”—­with a wry grin—­“I’m not the sort of chap to bear malice.”

They had walked on through the gate leading to the Hoe, and were in full view now of the splendid panorama of the Sound.

“And why shouldn’t you be a gentleman?” asked Parson Jack, halting and cocking down an eye upon this queer urchin.

“Well, there’s a goodish bit against it, you’ll allow.  You saw what we’re like at home.”  He looked up at Parson Jack frankly enough, but into his speech there crept a strange embarrassment, too old for his years.  “I mean, you saw enough without my telling you; and I mustn’t give the show away.”

“No, to be sure,” assented Parson Jack.  “Dick, you’ve the makings of a good fellow,” he added musingly.

But the boy’s eyes had wandered to the broad sheet of water below.  “Crikey, there she goes!” he cried, and jerked his arm towards an unwieldy battle-ship nosing her way out of the Hamoaze, her low bows tracing a thin line of white.  For half a minute they stood watching her.