thing was difficult. He saw clearly that if he took Jacob himself, his
absence, conjoined with the disappearance of the stranger, would either
cause the conviction that he was really a relative, or would oblige him
to the dangerous course of inventing a story to account for his
disappearance, and his own absence at the same time. David groaned.
There come occasions when falsehood is felt to be inconvenient. It
would, perhaps, have been a longer-headed device, if he had never told
any of those clever fibs about his uncles, grand and otherwise; for the
Palfreys were simple people, and shared the popular prejudice against
lying. Even if he could get Jacob away this time, what security was
there that he would not come again, having once found the way? O
guineas! O lozenges! what enviable people those were who had never
robbed their mothers, and had never told fibs! David spent a sleepless
night, while Jacob was snoring close by. Was this the upshot of
travelling to the Indies, and acquiring experience combined with
anecdote?

He rose at break of day, as he had once before done when he was in fear
of Jacob, and took all gentle means to rouse this fatal brother from his
deep sleep; he dared not be loud, because his apprentice was in the
house, and would report everything. But Jacob was not to be roused. He
fought out with his fist at the unknown cause of disturbance, turned
over, and snored again. He must be left to wake as he would. David,
with a cold perspiration on his brow, confessed to himself that Jacob
could not be got away that day.

Mr. Palfrey came over to Grimworth before noon, with a natural curiosity
to see how his future son-in-law got on with the stranger to whom he was
so benevolently inclined. He found a crowd round the shop. All
Grimworth by this time had heard how Freely had been fastened on by an
idiot, who called him "Brother Zavy"; and the younger population seemed
to find the singular stranger an unwearying source of fascination, while
the householders dropped in one by one to inquire into the incident.

"Why don't you send him to the workhouse?" said Mr. Prettyman. "You'll
have a row with him and the children presently, and he'll eat you up. The
workhouse is the proper place for him; let his kin claim him, if he's got
any."

"Those may be _your_ feelings, Mr. Prettyman," said David, his mind quite
enfeebled by the torture of his position.

"What! _is_ he your brother, then?" said