Morris nudged his brother as they examined the water-butt. It was

new, and very solidly constructed for its office. If anything had been

wanting to decide them, this eminently practical barrel would have

turned the scale. A bargain was promptly struck, the month's rent was

paid upon the nail, and about an hour later the Finsbury brothers might

have been observed returning to the blighted cottage, having along with

them the key, which was the symbol of their tenancy, a spirit-lamp, with

which they fondly told themselves they would be able to cook, a pork pie

of suitable dimensions, and a quart of the worst whisky in Hampshire.

Nor was this all they had effected; already (under the plea that they

were landscape-painters) they had hired for dawn on the morrow a light

but solid two-wheeled cart; so that when they entered in their new

character, they were able to tell themselves that the back of the

business was already broken.

John proceeded to get tea; while Morris, foraging about the house, was

presently delighted by discovering the lid of the water-butt upon the

kitchen shelf. Here, then, was the packing-case complete; in the absence

of straw, the blankets (which he himself, at least, had not the smallest

intention of using for their present purpose) would exactly take the

place of packing; and Morris, as the difficulties began to vanish from

his path, rose almost to the brink of exultation. There was, however,

one difficulty not yet faced, one upon which his whole scheme depended.

Would John consent to remain alone in the cottage? He had not yet dared

to put the question.

The Wrong Box