d could break, to hawsers strong enough to
hold a battleship, Bridport meets every need. Her twines and cords and
nets are famous the world over; her ropes, cables, cablets and canvas
rigged the fleet that scattered the Spanish Armada.

The broad streets with deep, unusual side-walks are a sign of Bridport's
past, for they tell of the days when men and women span yarn before
their doors, and rope-walks ran their amber and silver threads of hemp
and flax along the pavements. But steel and steam have taken the place
of the hand-spinners, though their industry has left its sign-manual
upon the township. For the great, open side-walks make for distinction
and spaciousness, and there shall be found in all Dorset, no brighter,
cheerfuller place than this. Bridport's very workhouse, south-facing and
bowered in green, blinks half a hundred windows amiably at the noonday
sun and helps to soften the life-failure of those who dwell therein. Off
Barrack Street it stands, and at the time of the terror, when Napoleon
threatened, soldiers hived here and gave the way its name.

Not far from the workhouse two inns face each other in Barrack
Street--'The Tiger' upon one side of the way, 'The Seven Stars' upon the
other; and at the moment when Henry Ironsyde's dust was reaching the
bottom of his grave at Bridetown, a young man of somewhat inane
countenance, clad in garments that displayed devotion to sport and
indifference to taste, entered 'The Tiger's' private bar.

Behind the counter stood Richard Gurd, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered
publican with a large and clean-shaven face, heavy-jaw, rather sulky
eyes and mighty hands.

"The usual," said the visitor. "Ray been here?"

Mr. Gurd shook his head.

"No, Mr. Ned--nor likely to. They're burying his father this morning."

The publican poured out a glass of cherry brandy as he spoke and Mr.
Neddy Motyer rolled a cigarette.

"Ray ain't going," said the customer.

"Not going to his father's funeral!"

"For a very good reason, too; he's cut off with a shilling."

"Dear, dear," said Mr. Gurd. "That's bad news, though perhaps not much
of a surprise to Mr. Raymond."

"It's a devil of a lesson to the rising generation," declared the youth.
"To think our own fathers can do such blackguard things, just because
they don't happen to like our way of life. What would become of England
if every man was made in the pattern of his father? Don't education and
all that count? If my father was