is nothing so cruel as a crowd, and I have seen
nothing in my life like the face of These-an'-That's wife. It was
bleeding; it was framed in tangles of black, dishevelled hair; it was
livid; but, above all, it was possessed with an awful fear--a horror
it turned a man white to look on. Now and then she bit and fought
like a cat: but the men around held her tight, and mostly had to drag
her, her feet trailing, and the horns and kettles dinning in her
wake.

There lay a rusty old ducking-cage among the lumber up at the
town-hall; and some fellows had fetched this down, with the poles and
chain, and planted it on the edge of the Town Quay, between the
American Shooting Gallery and the World-Renowned Swing Boats.
To this they dragged her, and strapped her fast.

There is no heed to describe what followed. Even the virtuous women
who stood and applauded would like to forget it, perhaps. At the
third souse, the rusty pivot of the ducking-pole broke, and the cage,
with the woman in it, plunged under water.

They dragged her ashore at the end of the pole in something less than
a minute. They unstrapped and laid her gently down, and began to
feel over her heart, to learn if it were still beating. And then the
crowd parted, and These-an'-That came through it. His face wore no
more expression than usual, but his lips were working in a queer way.

He went up to his wife, took off his hat, and producing an old red
handkerchief from the crown, wiped away some froth and green weed
that hung about her mouth. Then he lifted her limp hand, and patting
the back of it gently, turned on the crowd. His lips were still
working. It was evident he was trying to say something.

"Naybours," the words came at last, in the old dull tone; "I'd as
lief you hadn' thought o' this."

He paused for a moment, gulped down something in his throat, and went
on--

"I wudn' say you didn' mean it for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.
But you didn' know her. Roughness, if I may say, was never no good
wi' her. It must ha' been very hard for her to die like this, axin
your parden, for she wasn' one to bear pain."

Another long pause.

"No, she cudn' bear pain. P'raps _he_ might ha' stood it better--
though o' course you acted for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.
I'd as lief take her home now, naybours, if 'tis all the same."

He lifted the body in his arms, and carried it pretty steadily down
the quay steps to his market-boat, that wa