d there, or he wouldn't have
made it so bootiful'; and then up go their combs, and they tear away
into it, like a passel of Scotchmen at a scratching-match. If your
lordship won't put a lock on the door, you will never taste a bit of
good vegetable."

Admiral Darling was at length persuaded to allow Mr. Swipes the
privilege of locking himself in the kitchen-garden; and then, for
the purpose of getting at him, a bell was put in the gable of the
tool-house, with a long handle hanging outside the door in the courtyard
towards the kitchen. Thus he was able to rest from his labours, without
incurring unjust reproach; and gradually as he declined, with increasing
decision, to answer the bell when it rang, according to the highest laws
of nature it left off ringing altogether. So Mr. Swipes in the walled
kitchen-garden sought peace and ensued it.

One quiet November afternoon, when the disappearance of Dan Tugwell had
been talked out and done with, a sad mishap befell this gardener, during
the performance, or, to speak more correctly, the contemplation of his
work. A yawn of such length and breadth and height and profundity took
possession of him that the space it had so well occupied still retained
the tender memory. In plainer words, he had ricked his jaw, not from
general want of usage, but from the momentary excess.

"Sarves me right," he muttered, "for carrying on so, without nothing
inside of 'un. Must go to doctor, quick step, and no mistake."

In this strait he set off for John Prater's (for it was a matter of
luck to get ale at the Hall, and in such emergency he must not trust to
fortune), and passing hastily through the door, left it unlocked behind
him. Going down the hill he remembered this, and had a great mind to go
back again, but the unanimous demand of his system for beer impelled
him downwards. He never could get up that hill again without hydraulic
pressure.

All might have gone well, and all would have gone well, except for the
grievous mistake of Nature in furnishing women with eyes whose keenness
is only exceeded by that of their tongues. The cook at the Hall, a
superior person--though lightly esteemed by Mrs. Cloam--had long been
ambitious to have a voice in the selection of her raw material. If
anything was good, who got the credit? Mr. Swipes, immediately. But if
everything was bad, as more often happened, who received the blame? Mary
Knuckledown. Her lawful name was "Knuckleup," but early misfort