e she used to make
my father hold the cart up while _she_ greased the wheels. Folk would
come to see her do the trick. When I grew up I held the cart and they
both greased the wheels. But at last they died of the plague, the pair
of them, God rest their souls! So I inherited the farm----"

"And--" said Foy, fixing him with his eye.

"And," jerked out Martin in an unwilling fashion, "fell into bad
habits."

"Drink?" suggested the merciless Foy.

Martin sighed and hung his great head. He had a tender conscience.

"Then you took to prize-fighting," went on his tormentor; "you can't
deny it; look at your nose."

"I did, master, for the Lord hadn't touched my heart in those days,
and," he added, brisking up, "it wasn't such a bad trade, for nobody
ever beat me except a Brussels man once when I was drunk. He broke my
nose, but afterwards, when I was sober--" and he stopped.

"You killed the Spanish boxer here in Leyden," said Foy sternly.

"Yes," echoed Martin, "I killed him sure enough, but--oh! it was a
pretty fight, and he brought it on himself. He was a fine man, that
Spaniard, but the devil wouldn't play fair, so I just had to kill him. I
hope that they bear in mind up above that I _had_ to kill him."

"Tell me about it, Martin, for I was at The Hague at the time, and
can't remember. Of course I don't approve of such things"--and the young
rascal clasped his hands and looked pious--"but as it is all done with,
one may as well hear the story of the fight. To spin it won't make you
more wicked than you are."

Then suddenly Martin the unreminiscent developed a marvellous memory,
and with much wealth of detail set out the exact circumstances of that
historic encounter.

"And after he had kicked me in the stomach," he ended, "which, master,
you will know he had no right to do, I lost my temper and hit out with
all my strength, having first feinted and knocked up his guard with my
left arm----"

"And then," said Foy, growing excited, for Martin really told the story
very well, "what happened?"

"Oh, his head went back between his shoulders, and when they picked him
up, his neck was broken. I was sorry, but I couldn't help it, the Lord
knows I couldn't help it; he shouldn't have called me 'a dirty Frisian
ox' and kicked me in the stomach."

"No, that was very wrong of him. But they arrested you, didn't they,
Martin?"

"Yes, for the second time they condemned me to death as a brawler and a
manslayer. You see,