d it a strain on his nerves to
instantly assume the sullen, vaguely abused air with which he had decided
to leave the house. Nevertheless, he made the attempt, and if he did not
succeed to his own satisfaction, he evidently did to hers, for she made
no effort to stop him as he stumbled out, and in her final look, which he
managed with some address to intercept, he perceived nothing but relief.
What had been in her mind? Fear for him or fear for themselves? He could
not decide until he had rummaged that cart of bottles. But how was he to
do this without attracting attention to himself in a way he still felt,
to be undesirable. In his indecision, he paused on the sidewalk and let
his glances wander vaguely over the busy scene before him. Before be knew
it, his eye had left the market and travelled across the snow-covered
fields to a building standing by itself in the far distance. Its
appearance was not unfamiliar. Seizing hold of the first man who passed
him, he pointed it out, crying:

"What building is that?"

"That? That's The Whispering Pines, the country club-house, where--"

He didn't wait for the end of the sentence, but plunged into the thickest
group of people he could find, with a determination greater than ever to
turn those bottles over before he ate.

His manner of going about this was characteristic. Lounging about the
stalls until he found just the sort of old codger he wanted, he scraped
up an acquaintance with him on the spot, and succeeded in making himself
so agreeable that when the old fellow sauntered back to the stables to
take a look at his horse, Sweetwater accompanied him. Hanging round the
stable-door, he kept up his chatter, while sizing up the bottles heaped
in the cart at his side. He even allowed himself to touch one or two in
an absent way, and was meditating an accidental upset of the whole
collection when a woman he had not seen before, thrust her head out of a
rear window, shouting sharply:

"Leave those bottles alone. They're waiting for the old clothes man. He
pays us money for them."

Sweetwater gaped and strolled away. He had used his eyes to purpose, and
was quite assured that the bottle he wanted was not there. But the
woman's words had given him his cue, and when later in the day a certain
old Jew peddler went his rounds through this portion of the city, a
disreputable-looking fellow accompanied him, whom even the sharp landlady
in Cuthbert Road would have failed to recognis