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I did not keep Smugg’s secret; I felt under no obligation to keep it. He deserved no mercy, and I exposed him at breakfast that very morning. But I could not help being a little sorry for him when he came in. He bent his head under the shower of reproach, chaff, and gibing; he did not try to excuse himself; he simply opened his book at the old place, and we all shouted the old ode, substituting “Betsa” for “Pyrrha” wherever we could. Still, in spite of our jocularity, we all felt an under-current of real anger.

We considered that Smugg was treating Pyrrha very badly–Smugg, an engaged man, aged thirty, presumably past the heat and carelessness of youth. We glowed with a sense of her wrongs, and that afternoon we each went for a solitary walk–at least, we started for a solitary walk–but half an hour later we all met at the gate leading to Dill’s meadows, and, in an explosion of laughter, acknowledged our secret design of meeting Pyrrha, and opening her eyes to Smugg’s iniquity.

The great surprise was still to come. At eleven the next morning, when we had just sat down to work, and Smugg had slid into the room with the stealthy, ashamed air he wore after his morning excursions, Mary appeared, and told us that Joe Shanks, the butcher’s son, had come with the chops, and wanted to speak to us. We hailed the diversion, and had Joe shown in. Gayford pushed the beer jug and a glass toward him, saying:

“Help yourself, Joe.”

Joe drank a draught, wiped his mouth on his blue sleeve, and remarked:

“No offense, gentlemen.”

“None,” said Gayford, who seemed to have assumed the chairmanship of the meeting.

Joe, seeming slightly embarrassed, cleared his throat, and looked round again.

“No offense, gentlemen,” he repeated; “but she’s bin walking with me two years come Michaelmas.”

A pause followed. Then the chairman expressed the views of the meeting.

“The deuce she has!” said he.

“Off AND on,” added Joe candidly.

I looked at Smugg. He had shrunk down low in his seat, and rested his head on his hand. His face was half hidden; but he was very warm, and the drops trickled from his forehead down his nose.

“It seems to be a good deal off,” said the chairman judicially.

“No offense,” said Joe; “but I don’t take it kind of you, gentlemen. I’ve served you faithful.”

“The chops are excellent,” conceded the chairman.

“And I don’t take it kind.”

“Develop your complaint,” said the chairman. “I mean, what’s the row, Joe?”

“Since you gentlemen came she’s been saucy,” said Joe.

“I do not see,” observed the chairman, “that anything can be done. If Pyrrha prefers us, Joe [he treated the case collectively, which was certainly wise], what then?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Oh, I mean if the lady prefers us, Joe?”

Joe brought his fat fist down on the table with a thump.

“It aint as if you meant it,” said he doggedly; “you just unsettles of ‘er. I s’pose I can’t help ye talking, and laughing, and walking along of ‘er, but you aint no call to kiss ‘er.”

Another pause ensued. The chairman held a consultation with Tritton, who sat on his right hand.

“The meeting,” said Gayford, “will proceed to declare, one by one, whether it has ever–and if so, how often–kissed the lady. I will begin. Never! Mr. Tritton?”

“Never!” said Tritton.

“Mr. Bird?”

“Never!” said Bird.

“Mr. Robertson?”

“Never!” said I.

“Mr. Smugg?”

“I seed ‘im this very morning!” cried Joe, like an accusing angel.

Smugg took his hand away from his face, after giving his wet brow one last dab. He looked at Gayford and at Joe, but said nothing.

“Mr. Smugg?” repeated the chairman.

“Mr. Smugg,” interposed Tritton suavely, “probably feels himself in a difficulty. The secret is not, perhaps, entirely his own.”

We all nodded.

“We enter a plea of not guilty for Mr. Smugg,” observed the chairman gravely.

“I seed ‘im do it,” said Joe.

No one spoke. Joe finished his beer, pulled his forelock, and turned on his heel. Suddenly Smugg burst into speech. He could hardly form his words, and they jostled one another in the breathless confusion of his utterance.