spirituous liquors have I tasted for sixty-one
years come Martinmas," whimpered the old man. And he gave another lurch
against the policeman. "My name's Shushions!" And he repeated in a
frantic treble, "My name's Shushions!"

"Go and bury thysen, owd gaffer!" a Herculean young collier advised him.

"Why," murmured Hilda, with a sharp frown, "that must be poor old Mr
Shushions from Turnhill, and they're guying him! You must stop it.
Something must be done at once."

She jumped down feverishly, and Edwin had to do likewise. He wondered
how he should conduct himself so as to emerge creditably from the
situation. He felt himself, and had always felt himself, to be the last
man in the world capable of figuring with authority in a public
altercation. He loathed public altercations. The name of Shushions
meant nothing to him; he had forgotten it, if indeed he had ever
wittingly heard it. And he did not at first recognise the old man.
Descended from the barrel, he was merely an item in the loose-packed
crowd. As, in the wake of Hilda, he pushed with false eagerness between
stubborn shoulders, he heard the bands striking up again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TWO.

Approaching, he saw that the old man was very old. And then memory
stirred. He began to surmise that he had met the wizened face before,
that he knew something about it. And the face brought up a picture of
the shop door and of his father standing beside it, a long time ago. He
recalled his last day at school. Yes, of course! This was the old man
named Shushions, some sort of an acquaintance of his father's. This was
the old man who had wept a surprising tear at sight of him, Edwin. The
incident was so far off that it might have been recorded in history
books. He had never seen Mr Shushions since. And the old man was
changed, nearly out of recognition. The old man had lived too long; he
had survived his dignity; he was now nothing but a bundle of capricious
and obstinate instincts set in motion by ancient souvenirs remembered at
hazard. The front of his face seemed to have given way in general
collapse. The lips were in a hollow; the cheeks were concave; the eyes
had receded; and there were pits in the forehead. The pale silvery
straggling hairs might have been counted. The wrinkled skin was of a
curious brown yellow, and the veins, instead of being blue, were
outlined in Indian red. The imp