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to a comment about the unnecessariness of false
hair
but decides against it. ‘I was sad to hear of the misfortune that struck Moses Bradford,’ he says instead.
    A conduit in the tavern’s courtyard brings water in for brewing and last week a small boy tumbled into it. Moses leapt in to rescue him. The boy was quickly fished out by other customers of the ordinary but Moses was too bulky and awkward (perhaps too full of beer) to be saved. Captain Wing’s face falls. ‘He was a brave man,’ he says, then adds, ‘and a good customer.’ His expression becomes more regretful than ever.
    â€˜He died doing a good deed. He has gone straight to heaven.’
    â€˜Yes.’ Captain Wing looks doubtful. Perhaps he’s reflecting that not everything in Bradford’s past life might have suggested that destination. Still, Sewall is confident that what you are at the moment of death is the key. Not that you can
earn
salvation at that (or any other) moment. But you can show that it is justified—that God elected you to be one of His saints before you were even born—by the manner of your passing. He senses that Captain Wing has come about some other matter, however. He raises an eyebrow inquiringly. He has a suspicion he knows the gist of it.
    â€˜Mr. Sewall,’ Captain Wing says, ‘I’ve come to ask your advice.’
    â€˜I see. Would this business have to do with chairs?’
    â€˜Chairs?’
    â€˜There was talk at the meeting house that you have a room fitted with seats.’
    â€˜You can’t expect customers to eat and drink standing up.’
    Bang, bang. Bastian has resumed work on the henhouse. He’s being tactful, Sewall suspects. ‘These are seats in rows, as I understand it, not seats around tables.’
    â€˜Ah,’ says Captain Wing, looking a little sheepish. ‘They are in the back room of the tavern. It’s scarcely used. The truth of the matter is that an acquaintance of mine was looking for a room in which . . .’ his voice tails off a little, necessitating a clearing of the throat, ‘ . . .to do magic tricks.’
    Sewall saw magic tricks himself when he was in London, performed in the street. He remembers one in particular, involving a dried pea and three walnut shells. The practitioner was clearly a rogue, with quick fingers and deft hands perfectly suited to picking pockets when they were not whizzing his shells about. To Sewall’s astonishment, after his trick the sharper demanded the sum of five shillings, claiming that this was the amount he had wagered. Sewall had no recollection of wagering any amount at all, and it wasn’t something he would do in any case, for the simple reason that gambling is a sin. But while he tried to explain that there was no
contractus ludi
, the pea-man’s cronies began crowding around. They were a villainous crew, ragged and grimy, some bearing scars and others lacking limbs (one an eye), so Sewall handed over the extortionate amount they demanded to an accompaniment of jeering huzzas, and quickly fled while his own person remained intact. ‘When miracles are not performed by God,’ he says, ‘they are a kind of persecution of the people.’
    â€˜I just wanted a little income from letting that room,’ Wing replies. ‘It’s hardly used.’
    â€˜Since the man’s practice is unlawful, involving deception, then giving him accommodation would be unlawful too.’
    â€˜I was just hoping to amuse my customers,’ Wing explains, ‘but as it is offensive I will remedy it.’ He nods his acceptance, though his big honest face looks glum.
    Bastian has stopped hammering. There’s an awkward pause in the conversation. Sewall casts about in his mind for something to say that will make things easier again between himself and Captain Wing. Before he can come up with anything, little Joseph suddenly cries: ‘News