this period the Fates were kind. The accident to William Finnis had an odd effect. Formerly a stolid man, with a leisurely process of thought, there was now more of alertness under his steady manner; it seemed as though the fall from the tram-car had awakened dormant faculties. During his time of convalescence he learned to ride a bicycle, and in connection with this made the acquaintance of a repairing shop; a habit on the first days of running his bicycle clumsily soon enabled him to become on familiar terms with the shop and its manners. The result of all this appeared on one Sunday afternoon, when, having pulled Alfred and Caroline and the baby out into mid-stream off Greenwich—it was usual on these occasions to assume that the large be-frilled, hatted Trafalgar, sitting, with an amazed expression, on his pretty mother's lap, was a retired naval captain with a limitless knowledge of the sea—William Finnis, resting, made an important announcement. He had been back at work in Barraclough's for several months, and it had been noticed by the other workmen that he occupied his spare moments by working out figures on slips of paper; the men guessed that he was following the form of a horse with the view of making safe bets on a coming race.
'Talking about rowing,' said William Finnis, looking hard at Greenwich College, 'I've made up my mind to take a shop.'
'You'll get yourself into trouble,' remarked Alfred, 'if anybody sees you at it. What ho, Keptin'! You're keeping your weather eye open, ain't you?'
'He's a dear old scamp,' said Caroline, pinching the baby's nose; 'and I believe he takes notice of everything.'
The baby cooed argumentatively at this, puckering his small forehead, and Caroline contested the point with a fine assumption of earnestness, but presently gave in, acknowledging the baby to be entirely in the right; whereupon baby gurgled and closed his preposterous little mouth with a satisfied expression that said: 'It's of no use you women trying to argue with a man.
'What were you saying about a shop, Mr. Finnis?' asked Caroline, when this one-sided discussion closed. 'You wouldn't think of giving up Barraclough's?'
'That's jest what I am going to do,' said William steadily to the College. 'I'm going to chuck Barraclough's, and I'm going into business for meself.'
'Sweetstuff?' asked Alfred.
'No,' said William Finnis.
He fixed the two sculls between his knees, and found a printed card which seemed to have been done cheaply and recently. The ink smudged as he handed it over.
'William Finnis and Co,' read Alfred, with interest, 'Cycle Merchants, No. 142, Loampit Vale, Lewisham. Repairs attended to. Finest workmansbip guaranteed. W. F. and Co.'s motto is Nil Desperandum.'
'Don't you like the last bit?' asked William anxiously, but not withdrawing his gaze from the College.
'Wha's it mean?'
'I forget what it means,' confessed William; 'but it looks all right in print, don't it?'
'Let me look,' begged Caroline. She read it through. 'I think those two last words give a finish to the whole thing,' she said definitely.
'I'm glad you think that,' said William, turning now with great relief. 'I had doubts meself.'
'And what on earth is this bloomin' pan'omine about?' demanded Alfred. 'What's it supposed to mean?'
'Means,' said William, looking him well in the eyes, 'that in the past, by not mouchin' about and not getting mixed up with wrong uns'—Alfred coughed—'I've been able to put by a bit. Means that I want to make some more. Means that I've discovered there's money in this cycle business. Means'—here William Finnis lowered his voice—'that I've got an idea for an improvement in bicycles and I b'lieve there's money in that, too.'
'Well, I am blowed!' said Alfred. 'I never thought there was so much in you.'
'Baby say "Ooray for Mr. Finnis!"' ordered Caroline. The infant's small boiled sausage of an arm was waved by Caroline, who, listening attentively to the crowing, declared, in the manner of an interpreter, that baby had said: 'Here's wishing good luck and long life to Mr. Finnis'; and the baby gave a little kick with his woollen-booted foot, showing, explained Caroline, that he wanted to dance for joy. William Finnis bent forward to the baby, and, replacing for him the indiarubber cigar, which the baby smoked with great vigour and enjoyment, told him that he was a desperate old chatterbox.
'I shall miss you,' said Alfred thoughtfully. 'Let me 'ave a turn with the oars. I can't row,
'Keep where you are,' remarked Finnis, 'and listen to me. What I thought was that you might come down there and 'elp me with the business, and act as a kind of 'alf foreman, 'alf partner.'