“It’ll be a terrible show-up for you,” he said, softly. “You’d better make it worth my while, and I’ll tell ’em this evening that I’m going to New Zealand to live with a niece of mine there, and that you’ve paid my passage for me. I don’t like telling any more lies, but, seeing it’s for you, I’ll do it for a couple of pounds.”
“Five shillings,” snarled Mr. Ketchmaid.
Mr. Wiggett smiled comfortably and shook his head. Mr. Ketchmaid raised his offer to ten shillings, to a pound, and finally, after a few remarks which prompted Mr. Wiggett to state that hard words broke no bones, flung into the bar and fetched the money.
The news of Mr. Wiggett’s departure went round the village at once, the landlord himself breaking the news to the next customer, and an overflow meeting assembled that evening to bid the emigrant farewell.
The landlord noted with pleasure that business was brisk. Several gentlemen stood drink to Mr. Wiggett, and in return he put his hand in his own pocket and ordered glasses round. Mr. Ketchmaid, in a state of some uneasiness, took the order, and then Mr. Wiggett, with the air of one conferring inestimable benefits, produced a lucky halfpenny, which had once belonged to Sam Jones, and insisted upon his keeping it.
“This is my last night, mates,” he said, mournfully, as he acknowledged the drinking of his health. “In many ports I’ve been, and many snug pubs I ’ave visited, but I never in all my days come across a nicer, kinder-’earted lot o’ men than wot you are.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Clark.
Mr. Wiggett paused, and, taking a sip from his glass to hide his emotion, resumed.
“In my lonely pilgrimage through life, crippled and ’aving to beg my bread,” he said, tearfully, “I shall think o’ this ’appy bar and these friendly faces. When I am wrestlin’ with the pangs of ’unger and being moved on by the ’eartless police, I shall think of you as I last saw you.”
“But,” said Mr. Smith, voicing the general consternation, “you’re going to your niece in New Zealand?”