WRECKED IN PORT.
A SERIAL STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP."
BOOK II.
CHAPTER III. "NEWS FROM THE HUMMING CITY."

AFTER the ladies left the dining-room,
Walter Joyce, in the general re-arrangement
of seats thereon ensuing, found
himself placed next to Mr. Gould. It was soon
obvious that his propinquity was not
accidental on Mr. Gould's part. That keen-looking
gentleman at once wheeled round in
his chair, helped himself to a few olives
and a glass of the driest sherry within his
reach, and then fixing his bright steel-blue
eyes on his neighbour, said,"That was
news for you, that about young Creswell's
accident, Mr. Joyce?"

"It was indeed," replied Walter; " and—
to a certain extent—sad news."

"You knew the boy who was killed, and
his father?"

"Both. I knew the boy well; he was a
pupil in the school where I was an usher,
and I knew the father—by sight—as a man
in my position would know a man in his."

"Ah — of course!" and Mr. Gould
glanced more keenly than ever at his
interlocutor, to see whether he was speaking
earnestly or contemptuously. Earnestly,
he thought, after a glance, and Joyce fell
a little in the worldly man's opinion. He
sucked an olive slowly, made a little pattern
on his plate with the stones, and then said,
"Do you think this affair will make any
difference in Mr. Creswell's future?"

"In his future? Will the loss of his
son make any difference in his future?
Are you serious in asking such a question,
Mr. Gould? Will it not leave his life a
blank, a vague misery without——"

"Yes, yes, of course; I know all about
that. You'll pardon me, Mr. Joyce, I'm a
much older man than you, and therefore
you won't mind my experiencing a certain
amount of delight in your perfect freshness
and simplicity. As to leaving the
man's life blank, and all that—nonsense,
my dear sir, sheer nonsense. He'll find
plenty of distraction, even at his age, to fill
up the blank. Now I was not considering
the question from a domestic point of view
in the least; what I meant was, do you
think that it will alter any of his intentions
as regards public life?"

"Public life?—Mr. Creswell?"

"Yes, indeed, public life, Mr. Creswell!
I suppose now there's no harm in telling
you that the Conservative authorities in
London, the wire-pullers in Westminster,
have long had it in their minds to wrest
the second seat for Brocksopp from the
Liberals, that at the next general election
they have determined to make the fight,
and they have selected Mr. Creswell as
their champion."

"Mr. Creswell of Woolgreaves— going
into Parliament?"

"Well, that's rather a summary way of
putting it, Mr. Joyce," said the lawyer
with a chuckle. "Say rather, going to
try to get into Parliament! Didwell, of
Brocksopp, the Liberal agent, is a deuced
longheaded fellow, and will make a
tremendous struggle to keep Mr. Creswell out
in the cold. Do you know Didwell, of
Brocksopp?"

"I have a slight acquaintance with him."

"Then you've slight acquaintance with
a remarkably sharp character, and one who
never misses a chance for his party. It
will be a tremendous fight, sir, this next
election," said Mr. Gould, warming up,
placing all his olive stones in a row, and
charging at them with his dessert knife;