r th' clock on th' mantelpiece in th' parlour. Ye'll
find six bob."

He explained to her later that prudent members of Going Away Clubs
always left money concealed behind them, as this was the sole way of
providing against a calamitous return. The pair existed on the remainder
of the six shillings and on credit for a week. William Henry became his
hard self again. The prison life was resumed. But Annie did not mind,
for she had lived for a week at the rate of a thousand a year. And in a
fortnight William Henry began grimly to pay his subscriptions to the
next year's Going Away Club.

THREE EPISODES IN THE LIFE OF MR COWLISHAW,
DENTIST

I

They all happened on the same day. And that day was a Saturday, the red
Saturday on which, in the unforgettable football match between Tottenham
Hotspur and the Hanbridge F.C. (formed regardless of expense in the
matter of professionals to take the place of the bankrupt Knype F.C.),
the referee would certainly have been murdered had not a Five Towns
crowd observed its usual miraculous self-restraint.

Mr Cowlishaw--aged twenty-four, a fair-haired bachelor with a weak
moustache--had bought the practice of the retired Mr Rapper, a dentist
of the very old school. He was not a native of the Five Towns. He came
from St Albans, and had done the deal through an advertisement in the
_Dentists' Guardian_, a weekly journal full of exciting interest to
dentists. Save such knowledge as he had gained during two preliminary
visits to the centre of the world's earthenware manufacture, he knew
nothing of the Five Towns; practically, he had everything to learn. And
one may say that the Five Towns is not a subject that can be "got up" in
a day.

His place of business--or whatever high-class dentists choose to call
it--in Crown Square was quite ready for him when he arrived on the
Friday night: specimen "uppers" and "lowers" and odd teeth shining in
their glass case, the new black-and-gold door-plate on the door, and
the electric filing apparatus which he had purchased, in the
operating-room. Nothing lacked there. But his private lodgings were not
ready; at least, they were not what he, with his finicking Albanian
notions, called ready, and, after a brief altercation with his landlady,
he went off with a bag to spend the night at the Turk's Head Hotel. The
Turk's Head is the best hotel in Hanbridge, not excepting the new Hotel
Metropole (Limited, and German-Swiss waiters). The proof of