“Your daughter, maybe?”
“My wife,” answered Tucker briefly.
“You don't tell me!” cried Roebuck. “Let's see, it was your first wife I knowed, wa'n'. it?”
“My second,” said Tucker. “Sarah.”
“So it was. I mind now that was her name.”
“A good woman,” said Tucker, and said no more.
Presently, however, when he had eaten, and his eating included much drinking, they established themselves for privacy's sake in the tavern parlour near a small table, where as the night wore on, there was a steady accumulation of empty bottles, “Dead soldiers,” Roebuck called them.
It was then that Tucker poured the narrative of his wrongs into the listening ear of his ancient friend.
“I mind now I heard of your second wife's death, and that you'd married again,” said Roebuck, when he had finished.
“It was once too often, John,” said Tucker sadly. “I know it now though I didn't think so then. She was a tidy-looking girl when I carried her home to the Red Brick.”