Gaffer was not there, but a pretty strong muster of Miss Abbey’s pupils were, who exhibited, when occasion required, the greatest docility. On the clock’s striking ten, and Miss Abbey’s appearing at the door, and addressing a certain person in a faded scarlet jacket, with “George Jones, your time’s up! I told your wife you should be punctual,” Jones submissively rose, gave the company good-night, and retired. At half-past ten, on Miss Abbey’s looking in again, and saying, “William Williams, Bob Glamour, and Jonathan, you are all due,” Williams, Bob, and Jonathan with similar meekness took their leave and evaporated. Greater wonder than these, when a bottle-nosed person in a glazed hat had after some considerable hesitation ordered another glass of gin and water of the attendant potboy, and when Miss Abbey, instead of sending it, appeared in person, saying, “Captain Joey, you have had as much as will do you good,” not only did the captain feebly rub his knees and contemplate the fire without offering a word of protest, but the rest of the company murmured, “Ay, ay, Captain! Miss Abbey’s right; you be guided by Miss Abbey, Captain.” Nor, was Miss Abbey’s vigilance in anywise abated by this submission, but rather sharpened; for, looking round on the deferential faces of her school, and descrying two other young persons in need of admonition, she thus bestowed it: “Tom Tootle, it’s time for a young fellow who’s going to be married next month, to be at home and asleep. And you needn’t nudge him, Mr Jack Mullins, for I know your work begins early to-morrow, and I say the same to you. So come! Good-night, like good lads!” Upon which, the blushing Tootle looked to Mullins, and the blushing Mullins looked to Tootle, on the question who should rise first, and finally both rose together and went out on the broad grin, followed by Miss Abbey; in whose presence the company did not take the liberty of grinning likewise.

In such an establishment, the white-aproned pot-boy with his shirt-sleeves arranged in a tight roll on each bare shoulder, was a mere hint of the possibility of physical force, thrown out as a matter of state and form.Exactly at the closing hour, all the guests who were left, filed out in the best order: Miss Abbey standing at the half door of the bar, to hold a ceremony of review and dismissal. All wished Miss Abbey good-night, and Miss Abbey wished good-night to all, except Riderhood. The sapient pot-boy, looking on officially, then had the conviction borne in upon his soul, that the man was evermore outcast and excommunicate from the Six Jolly Fellowship-Porters.

“You Bob Gliddery,” said Miss Abbey to this pot-boy, “run round to Hexam’s and tell his daughter Lizzie that I want to speak to her.”

With exemplary swiftness Bob Gliddery departed, and returned. Lizzie, following him, arrived as one of the two female domestics of the Fellowship-Porters arranged on the snug little table by the bar fire, Miss Potterson’s supper of hot sausages and mashed potatoes.

“Come in and sit ye down, girl,” said Miss Abbey. “Can you eat a bit?”

“No thank you, Miss I have had my supper.”

“I have had mine too, I think,” said Miss Abbey, pushing away the untasted dish, “and more than enough of it. I am put out, Lizzie.”

“I am very sorry for it, Miss”

“Then why, in the name of Goodness,” quoth Miss Abbey, sharply, “do you do it?”

“I do it, Miss!”

“There, there. Don’t look astonished. I ought to have begun with a word of explanation, but it’s my way to make short cuts at things. I always was a pepperer. You Bob Gliddery there, put the chain upon the door and get ye down to your supper.”

With an alacrity that seemed no less referable to the pepperer fact than to the supper fact, Bob obeyed, and his boots were heard descending towards the bed of the river.