Mr. Clark shook his head, and, meeting the eye of Mr. Tucker in the process, favored him with a glance of such utter venom that the latter was almost startled.
“Good-by, Mr. Tucker,” said the widow, holding out her hand. “Nathaniel did think of inviting you to come to my wedding, but perhaps it is best not. However, if I alter my mind, I will get him to advertise for you again. Good-by.”
She placed her arm in Mr. Clark's again, and led him slowly away. Mr. Tucker stood watching them for some time, and then, with a glance in the direction of the “George,” where he had left a very small portmanteau, he did a hasty sum in comparative values and made his way to the railway-station.
[THE DREAMER]
DREAMS and warnings are things I don't believe in, said the night watchman. The only dream I ever 'ad that come anything like true was once when I dreamt I came in for a fortune, and next morning I found half a crown in the street, which I sold to a man for fourpence. And once, two days arter my missis 'ad dreamt she 'ad spilt a cup of tea down the front of 'er Sunday dress, she spoilt a pot o' paint of mine by sitting in it.
The only other dream I know of that come true happened to the cook of a bark I was aboard of once, called the Southern Belle. He was a silly, pasty-faced sort o' chap, always giving hisself airs about eddication to sailormen who didn't believe in it, and one night, when we was homeward-bound from Sydney, he suddenly sat up in 'is bunk and laughed so loud that he woke us all up.
“Wot's wrong, cookie?” ses one o' the chaps.
“I was dreaming,” ses the cook, “such a funny dream. I dreamt old Bill Foster fell out o' the foretop and broke 'is leg.”
“Well, wot is there to laugh at in that?” ses old Bill, very sharp.