k of Mr Willet's chair, and fairly blubbered on his
shoulder.

While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staring
at him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible
symptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was
silent again, John followed with his great round eyes the direction
of his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that
somebody had come to see him.

'You know us, don't you, Johnny?' said the little clerk, rapping himself
on the breast. 'Daisy, you know--Chigwell Church--bell-ringer--little
desk on Sundays--eh, Johnny?'

Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it were
mechanically: 'Let us sing to the praise and glory of--'

'Yes, to be sure,' cried the little man, hastily; 'that's it--that's me,
Johnny. You're all right now, an't you? Say you're all right, Johnny.'

'All right?' pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely
between himself and his conscience. 'All right? Ah!'

'They haven't been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any other
blunt instruments--have they, Johnny?' asked Solomon, with a very
anxious glance at Mr Willet's head. 'They didn't beat you, did they?'

John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engaged
in some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the total would
not come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to his
shoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round,
leaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out of
each eye, and he said, as he shook his head:

'If they'd only had the goodness to murder me, I'd have thanked 'em
kindly.'

'No, no, no, don't say that, Johnny,' whimpered his little friend. 'It's
very, very bad, but not quite so bad as that. No, no!'

'Look'ee here, sir!' cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr Haredale,
who had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untie
his bonds. 'Look'ee here, sir! The very Maypole--the old dumb
Maypole--stares in at the winder, as if it said, "John Willet, John
Willet, let's go and pitch ourselves in the nighest pool of water as is
deep enough to hold us; for our day is over!"'

'Don't, Johnny, don't,' cried his friend: no less affected with this
mournful effort of Mr Willet's imagination, than by the sepulchral tone
in which he had spoken of the Maypole. 'Please don't, Johnny!'

'Your loss is great, and your misfortune a h