Dick Causton's cottage—as it was called by courtesy, being, in truth, only a better sort of cabin—stood on a sandy corner of the estate that he had formerly¹ owned. At first, he had begged to remain there only until he could fix upon some more eligible² place of abode³; but the owner was good natured, and Dick was indolent to the point not only of letting well enough alone, but bad enough, too; so it gradually came to be understood that he was a life-tenant, by sufferance, of the place. Nor did the owner deem it worth while to interfere⁴, when, in course of time, Dick made the discovery that the sand composing this small domain⁵ was of superior quality, and proceeded to convert it into cash, at the rate of two or three pennies a load, and to swallow it a second time, in the shape of alcohol. The process ceased only when the digging threatened to undermine the cottage; which was thus left high and dry upon a triangular⁶ sand promontory⁷, with a deep excavation⁸ on each side. The base of the triangle—a part of it, at least—touched the boundary line of Oakstead, very near the point where Bergan had been left for dead by "Big Ben."

Dick had risen unusually early on that morning. Owing to his sudden flight from the Rat-Hole, he had failed to replenish¹⁰ his stock of brandy, as he had designed; and the small quantity on hand had been insufficient¹¹ to blunt the thorns in his pillow, planted partly by Doctor Remy's threats, and partly by the reproaches of his own conscience. He had tossed about on their sharp points for the better part of the night, and was glad when dawn brought such a measure of relief as was to be

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