He did not leave till three in the morning, and after a promise to meet the same little party again next evening—to dance and drink and drive away dull care.



CHAPTER XLVII.

ON a certain evening some days later, the two men whose faces were definitions sat on a bench outside that little public in the suburbs—one at the end of a clay-pipe, the other behind a pewter mug. It was dusk.

"He ought to be here soon," said the one into whose forehead holes seemed dug and little bits of some vitreous substance left at the bottom. "Well, mate," cried he harshly, "what do you want that you stick to us so tight?" This was addressed to a peddler who had been standing opposite showing the contents of his box with a silent eloquence. Now this very asperity made the portable shopman say to himself, "wants me out of the way—perhaps buy me out." So he stuck where he was, and exhibited his wares.

"We don't want your gim-cracks," said mephistopheles quietly.

The man eyed his customers and did not despair. "But, gents," said he, "I have got other things besides gim-cracks; something that will suit you if you can read."

"Of course we can read," replied sunken-eyes haughtily; and in fact they had been too often in jail to escape this accomplishment.

The peddler looked furtively in every direction; and after this precaution pressed a spring and brought a small drawer out from the bottom of his pack. The two rogues winked at one another. Out of the drawer the peddler whipped a sealed packet.

"What is it?" asked mephistopheles, beginning to take an interest.

"Just imported from England," said the peddler, a certain pomp mingling with his furtive and mysterious manner.

"—— England," was the other's patriotic reply.

"And translated from the French."

"That is better! but what is it?"

"Them that buy it—they will see!"

"Something flash?"

"Rather, I should say."

"Is there plenty about the women in it?"

The trader answered obliquely.

"What are we obliged to keep it dark for?"—the other put in, "Why of course there is."

"Well!" said sunken-eyes affecting carelessness. "What do you want for it? Got sixpence, Bill?"

"I sold the last to a gentleman for three-and-sixpence. But as this is the last I've got—say half a crown."

Sunken-eyes swore at the peddler.

"What! half a crown for a book no thicker than a quire of paper?"

"Only half a crown for a thing I could be put in prison for selling. Is not my risk to be paid as well as my leaves?"

This logic went home, and after a little higgling two shillings was offered and accepted, but in the very act of commerce the trader seemed to have a misgiving.

"I daren't do it unless you promise faithfully never to tell you had it of me. I have got a character to lose, and I would not have it known—not for the world, that James Walker had sold such loose—licentious—"

"Oh! what it is very spicy, is it? Come, hand it over. There's the two bob."

"My poverty and not my will consents," sighed the trader.

"There, you be off, or we shall have all the brats coming round us."

The peddler complied and moved off, and so willing was he to oblige his customers that on turning the corner he shouldered his pack and ran with great agility down the street, till he gained a network of small alleys in which he wriggled and left no trace.

Meantime sunken-eyes had put his tongue to the envelope and drawn out the contents. "I'll go into the light and see what it is all about."

mephistopheles left alone had hardly given his pipe two sucks ere brutus returned black with rage and spouting oaths like a whale.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"Matter! Didn't he sell this to me for a flash story?"

"Why he didn't say so. But certainly he dropped a word about loose books."

"Of course he did."

"Well! and ain't they?"

"Ain't they!" cried the other with fury. "Here, you young shaver, bring the candle out here. Ain't they? No they ain't——and——and——the —— ——. Look here!"

mephisto. "'Mend your Ways,' a tract."

brutus. "I'll break his head instead."

mephisto. "'Narrative of Mr. James the Missionary.'"

brutus. "The cheating, undermining rip."

mephisto. "And here is another to the same tune."

brutus. "Didn't I tell you so. The hypocritical, humbugging rascal—"

mephisto. "Stop a bit. Here is a little one: 'Memoirs of a Gentleman's Housekeeper.'"

brutus. "Oh! is there? I did not see that."

mephisto. "You are so hasty. The case mayn't be so black as it looks. The others might be thrown in to make up the parcel. Hold the candle nearer.

brutus. "Ay! let us see about the housekeeper."

The two men read "The Housekeeper" eagerly, but as they read the momentary excitement of hope died out of their faces. Not a sparkle of the ore they sought; all was dross. "The Housekeeper" was one of those who make pickles, not eat them—and in a linen apron a yard wide save their master's money from the fangs of cook and footman, not help him scatter it in a satin gown.

There was not even a stray hint or an indelicate expression for the poor fellow's two shillings. The fraud, was complete. It was not like the ground coffee, pepper and mustard in a London shop—in which there is as often as not a pinch of real coffee, mustard and pepper to a pound of chicory and bullock's blood, of red lead, dirt, flour and turmeric. Here the do was pure.

Then brutus relieved his swelling heart by a string of observations partly rhetorical, partly zoological. He devoted to horrible plagues every square inch of the peddler, enumerating more particularly those interior organs that subserve vitality, and concluded by vowing solemnly to put a knife into him the first fair opportunity. "I'll teach the rogue to—" Sell you medicine for poison, eh?

mephistopheles, either because he was a more philosophic spirit or was not the one out of pocket, took the blow more coolly. "It is a bite and no mistake. But what of it? Our money," said he, with a touch of sadness, "goes as it comes. This is only two bob flung in the dirt. We should not have invested them in the Three per Cents; and to-night's swag will make it up."

He then got a fresh wafer and sealed the pamphlets up again. "There," said he, you keep dark and sell the first flat you come across the same way the varmint sold you.

brutus, sickened at heart by the peddler's iniquity, revived at the prospect of selling some fellow-creature as he had been sold. He put the paper-trap in his pocket; and, cheated of obscenity, consoled himself with brandy such as Bacchus would not own, but Beelzebub would brew for man if permitted to keep an earthly distillery.

Presently they were joined by the third man, and for two hours the three heads might all have been covered by one bushel-basket, and peddler Walker's heartless fraud was forgotten in business of a higher order.

At last mephistopheles gave brutus a signal, and they rose to interrupt the potations of the newcomer, who was pouring down fire and hot water in rather a reckless way.

"We won't all go together," said mephistopheles. "You two meet me at Jonathan's ken in an hour."

As brutus and the newcomer walked along an idea came to brutus. "Here is a fellow that passes for a sharp. What if I sell him my pamphlets and get a laugh at his expense. Mate," said he, "here is a flash book all sealed up. What will you give me for it?"

"Well! I don't much care for that sort of reading, old fellow."

"But this is cheap. I got it a bargain. Come—a shilling won't hurt you for it. See there is more than one under the cover."

Now the other had been drinking till he was in that state in which a good-natured fellow's mind if decomposed would be found to be all "Yes," and "Dine with me to-morrow," so he fell into the trap.

"I'll give it you, my boy," said he. "Let us see it? There are more than one inside it. You're an honest fellow. Owe you a shilling." And the sealed parcel went into his pocket. Then, seeing brutus look rather rueful at this way of doing business, he hiccoughed out, "Stop your bob out of the swag"—and chuckled.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

A SNOW-WHITE suburban villa standing alone with its satellites that occupied five times as much space as itself; coach-house, stable, offices, greenhouse clinging to it like dew to a lily, and hot-house farther in the rear. A wall of considerable height inclosed the whole. It booked as secure and peaceful as innocent in the fleeting light the young moon cast on it every time the passing clouds left her clear a moment. Yet at this calm thoughtful hour crime was waiting to invade this pretty little place.

Under the scullery-window lurked brutus and mephistopheles—faces blackened, tools in hand—ready to whip out a pane of said window and so penetrate the kitchen, and from the kitchen the pantry, where they made sure of a few spoons, and up the back stairs to the plate-chest. They would be in the house even now but a circumstance delayed them—a light was burning on the second floor. Now it was contrary to their creed to enter a house where a light was burning, above all, if there was the least chance of that light being in a sitting-room. Now they had been some hours watching the house and that light had been there all the time, therefore, argued mephistopheles, "It is not a farthing glim in a bedroom or we should have seen it lighted. It is some one up. We must wait till they roost."

They waited and waited and waited. Still the light burned. They cursed the light. No wonder. Light seems the natural enemy of evil deeds.

They began to get bitter, and their bodies cold. Even burglary becomes a bore when you have to wait too long idle out in the cold.

At last, at about half past two, the light went out. Then, keenly listening, the two sons of darkness heard a movement in the house, and more than one door open and shut, and then the sound of feet going rapidly down the road toward Sydney.

"Why! it is a party only just broke up. Lucky I would not work till the glim was out."

"But I say, Bill—he is at that corner—the nobs must have passed close to him—suppose they saw him."

"He is not so green as let them see him."

The next question was how long they should wait to let the inmates close their peepers. All had been still and dark more than half an hour when the pair began to work. mephisto took out a large piece of putty and dabbed it on the middle of the pane; this putty he worked in the center up to a pyramid; this he held with his left hand, while with his right be took out his glazier's diamond and cut the pane all round the edges. By the hold the putty gave him, he prevented the pane from falling inside the house and making a noise, and finally whipped it out clean and handed it to brutus. A moment more the two men were in the scullery, thence into the kitchen through a door which they found open; in the kitchen were two doors—trying one they found it open into a larder. Here casting the light of his dark lantern round, brutus discovered some cold fowl and a ham; they took these into the kitchen, and somewhat coolly took out their knives and ate a hasty but hearty supper. Their way of hacking the ham was as lawless as all the rest. They then took off their shoes and dropped them outside the scullery window, and now the serious part of the game began. Creeping like cats, they reached the pantry, and sure enough found more than a dozen silver spoons and forks of different sizes that had been recently used. These they put into a small bag, and mephisto went back through the scullery into the back garden and hid these spoons in a bush. "Then, if we should be interrupted, we can come back for them."

And now the game became more serious and more nervous—the pair drew their clasp knives and placed them in their bosoms ready in case of extremity; then creeping like cats, one foot at a time and then a pause, ascended the back stairs, at the top of which was a door. But this door was not fastened, and in another moment they passed through it and were on the first landing. The plan, correct in every particular, indicated the plate closet to their right. A gleam from the lantern showed it; the key-hole was old-fashioned as also described, and in a moment brutus had it open. Then mephisto whipped out a green baize bag with compartments, and in a minute these adroit hands had stowed away cups, tureens, baskets, soup-spoons, etc., to the value of three hundred pounds, and scarce a chink heard during the whole operation. It was done; a look passed as much as to say this is enough, and they crept back silent and cat-like as they had come, brutus leading with the bag. Now just as he had his hand on the door through which they had come up—snick! click!—a door was locked somewhere down below.

brutus looked round and put the bag gently down. "Where?" he whispered.

"Near the kitchen," was the reply scarce audible. "Sounded to me to come from the hall," whispered the other.

Both men changed color, but retained their presence of mind and their cunning. brutus stepped back to the plate-closet, put the bag in it, and closed it, but without locking it. "Stay there," whispered he, "and if I whistle—run out the back way empty-handed. If I mew—out with the bag and come out by the front door; nothing but inside bolts to it, plan says."

They listened a moment, there was no fresh sound. Then brutus slipped down the front stairs in no time; he found the front door not bolted; he did not quite understand that, and drawing a short bludgeon, he opened it very cautiously; the caution was not superfluous. Two gentlemen made a dash at him from the outside the moment the door was open; one of their heads cracked like a broken bottle under the blow the ready ruffian struck him with his bludgeon, and he dropped like a shot; but another was coming flying across the lawn with a drawn cutlass, and brutus, finding himself overmatched, gave one loud whistle and flew across the hall, making for the kitchen. Flew he never so fast mephisto was there an instant before him. As for the gentleman at the door he was encumbered with his hurt companion, who fell across his knees as he rushed at the burglar. brutus got a start of some seconds and dashed furiously into the kitchen and flew to the only door between them and the scullery-window.

THE DOOR WAS LOCKED.

The burglar's eyes gleamed in their deep caverns, "Back, Will—and cut through them," he cried—and out flashed his long bright knife.



CHAPTER XLIX.

WHILE the two burglars were near the scullery-window watching the light in the upper story a third man stood sentinel on the opposite side of the house; he was but a few yards from the public road, yet hundreds would have passed and no man seen him; for he had placed himself in a thick shadow flat against the garden-wall. His office was to signal danger from his side should any come. Now the light that kept his comrades inactive was not on his side of the house; he waited therefore expecting every moment their signal that the job was done. On this the cue was to slip quietly off and all make by different paths for the low public-house described above and there divide the swag.

The man waited and waited and waited for this signal; it never came; we know why. Then he became impatient—miserable; he was out of his element—wanted to be doing something. At last all this was an intolerable bore. Not feeling warm toward the job, he had given the active business to his comrades, which he now regretted for two reasons. First, he was kept here stagnant and bored; and second, they must be a pair of bunglers; he'd have robbed a parish in less time. He would light a cigar. Tobacco blunts all ills, even ennui. Putting his hand in his pocket for a cigar, it ran against a hard, square substance. What is this?—oh! the book mephisto had sold him. No, he would not smoke, he would see what the book was all about; he knelt down and took off his hat, and put his dark-lantern inside it before he ventured to move the slide; then undid the paper, and putting it into the hat, threw the concentrated rays on the contents and peered in to examine them. Now the various little pamphlets had been displaced by mephisto, and the first words that met the thief's eye in large letters on the back of a tract were these, "THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH."

Thomas Robinson looked at these words with a stupid gaze. At first he did not realize all that lay in them. He did not open the tract; he gazed benumbed at the words, and they glared at him like the eyes of green fire when we come in the dark on some tiger-cat crouching in his lair.

Oh that I were a painter and could make you see what cannot be described—the features of this strange incident that sounds so small and was so great! The black night, the hat, the renegade peering under it in the wall's deep shadows to read something trashy, and the half-open lantern shooting its little strip of intense fire, and the grim words springing out in a moment from the dark face of night and dazzling the renegade's eyes and chilling his heart:

"THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH."

To his stupor now succeeded surprise and awe. "How comes this?" he whispered aloud, "was this a trick of ——'s? No! he doesn't know— This is the devil's own doing—no! it is not—more likely it is—The third time!—I'll read it. My hands shake so I can hardly hold it. It is by him—yes—signed F. E. Heaven, have mercy on me!—This is more than natural."

He read it, shaking all over as he read.

The tract was simply written. It began with a story of instances, some of them drawn from the histories of prisoners, and it ended with an earnest exhortation and a terrible warning. When the renegade came to this part, his heart beat violently; for along with the earnest, straightforward, unmincing words of sacred fire there seemed to rise from the paper the eloquent voice, the eye rich with love, the face of inexhaustible intelligence and sympathy that had so often shone on Robinson, while just words such as these issued from those golden lips.

He read on, but not to the end; for as he read he came to one paragraph that made him fancy that Mr. Eden was by his very side. "You, into whose hands these words of truth shall fall, and find you intending to do some foolish or wicked thing to-morrow, or the next day, or to-day, or this very hour—stop!—do not that sin! on your soul do it not!—fall on your knees and repent the sin you have meditated; better repent the base design than suffer for the sin, as suffer you shall so surely as the sky is pure, so surely as God is holy and sin's wages are death."

At these words, as if the priest's hand had been stretched across the earth and sea and laid on the thief's head, he fell down upon his knees with his back toward the scene of burglary and his face toward England, crying out, "I will, your reverence. I am!—Lord, help me!" cried he, then first remembering how he had been told to pray in temptation's hour. The next moment he started to his feet, he dashed his lantern to the ground, and leaped over a gate that stood in his way, and fled down the road to Sydney.

He ran full half a mile before he stopped; his mind was in a whirl. Another reflection stopped him. He was a sentinel, and had betrayed his post; suppose his pals were to get into trouble through reckoning on him; was it fair to desert them without warning? What if he were to go back and give the whistle of alarm, pretend he had seen some one watching, and so prevent the meditated crime, as well as be guiltless of it himself; but then, thought he, "and suppose I do go back what will become of me?"

While he hesitated, the question was decided for him. As he looked back irresolute, his keen eye noticed a shadow moving along the hedge-side to his left.

"Why, they are coming away," was his first thought. But looking keenly down the other edge which was darker still he saw another noiseless moving shadow. "Why are they on different sides of the road and both keeping in the shadow?" thought this shrewd spirit, and he liked it so ill that he turned at once and ran off toward Sydney.

At this out came the two figures with a bound into the middle of the road, and, with a loud view-halloo, raced after him like the wind.

Robinson, as he started and before he knew the speed of his pursuers, ventured to run sidewise a moment to see who or what they were. He caught a glimpse of white waistcoats and glittering studs, and guessed the rest.

He had a start of not more than twenty yards, but he was a good runner, and it was in his favor that his pursuers had come up at a certain speed, while he started fresh after a rest. He squared his shoulders, opened his mouth wide for a long race, and ran as men run for their lives.

In the silent night Robinson's highlows might have been heard half a mile off clattering along the hard road. Pit pit pit pat! came two pair of dress-boots after him. Robinson heard the sound with a thrill of fear: "They in their pumps and I in boots," thought he, and his pursuers heard the hunted one groan, and redoubled their efforts as dogs when the stag begins to sob.

He had scarce run a hundred yards with his ears laid back like a hare's, when he could not help thinking the horrible pit pit pit got nearer; he listened with agonized keenness as he ran, and so fine did his danger make his ear that he could tell the exact position of his pursuers. A cold sweat crept over him as he felt they had both gained ten yards out of the twenty on him; then he distinctly felt one pursuer gain upon the other, and this one's pit pit pit crept nearer and nearer, an inch every three or four yards; the other held his own—no more—no less.

At last so near crept No. 1 that Robinson felt his hot breath at his ear. He clinched his teeth and gave a desperate spurt, and put four or five yards between them; he could have measured the ground gained by the pit pit pat. But the pursuer put on a spurt, and reduced the distance by half.

"I may as well give in," thought the hunted one—but at that moment came a gleam of hope; this pursuer began suddenly to pant very loud. He had clinched his teeth to gain the twenty yards; he had gained them but had lost his wind. Robinson heard this, and feared him no longer, and in fact after one or two more puffs came one despairing snort, and No. 1 pulled up dead short, thoroughly blown.

As No. 2 passed him, he just panted out

"Won't catch him."

"Won't I!" ejaculated No 2, expelling the words rather than uttering them.

Klopetee klop, klopetee klop, klopetee, klopetee, klopetee klop.

Pit pat, pit pat, pit pat pat, pit pit pat. Ten yards apart, no more no less.

Nor nearer might the dog attain, Nor farther might the quarry strain.

"They have done me between them, thought poor Robinson. "I could have run from either singly, but one blows me, and then the other runs me down. I can get out of it by fighting perhaps, but then there will be another crime."

Robinson now began to pant audibly, and finding he could not shake the hunter off, he with some reluctance prepared another game.

He began to exaggerate his symptoms of distress, and imperceptibly to relax his pace. On this the pursuer came up hand over head. He was scarce four yards behind when Robinson suddenly turned and threw himself on one knee, with both hands out like a cat's claws. The man ran on full tilt; in fact, he could not have stopped. Robinson caught his nearest ankle with both hands and rose with him and lifted him, aided by his own impulse, high into the air and sent his heels up perpendicular. The man described a parabola in the air, and came down on the very top of his head with frightful force; and as he lay, his head buried in his hat and his heels kicking, Robinson without a moment lost jumped over his body, and klopetee klop rang fainter and fainter down the road alone.

The plucky pursuer wrenched his head with infinite difficulty out of his hat, which sat on his shoulders with his nose pointing through a chasm from crown to brim, shook himself, and ran wildly a few yards in pursuit—but finding he had in his confusion run away from Robinson as well as Robinson from him, and hopeless of recovering the ground now lost, he gave a rueful sort of laugh, made the best of it, put his hands in his pockets and strolled back to meet No. 1.

Meantime, Robinson, fearful of being pursued on horseback, relaxed his speed but little and ran the three miles out into Sydney. He came home with his flank heating and a glutinous moisture on his lip, and a hunted look in his eye. He crept into bed, but spent the night thinking, ay, and praying, too, not sleeping.



CHAPTER L.

THOMAS ROBINSON rose from his sleepless bed an altered man; altered above all in this that his self-confidence was clean gone. "How little I knew myself," said he, "and how well his reverence knew me! I am the weakest fool on earth—he saw that and told me what to do. He provided help for me—and I, like an ungrateful idiot, never once thought of obeying him; but from this hour I see myself as I am and as he used to call me—a clever fool. I can't walk straight without some honest man to hold by. Well, I'll have one, though I give up everything else in the world for it."

Then he went to his little box and took out the letter to George Fielding. He looked at it and reproached himself for forgetting it so long. "A letter from the poor fellow's sweetheart, too. I ought to have sent it by the post if I did not take it. But I will take it. I'll ask Mr. Miles's leave the moment he comes home, and start that very day." Then he sat down and read the tract again, and as he read it was filled with shame and contrition.

By one of those freaks of mind which it is so hard to account for, every good feeling rushed upon him with far greater power than when he was in —— Prison, and, strange to say, he now loved his reverence more and took his words deeper to heart than he had done when they were together. His flesh crept with horror at the thought that he had been a criminal again, at least in intention, and that but for Heaven's mercy he would have been taken and punished with frightful severity, and above all would have wounded his reverence to the heart in return for more than mortal kindness, goodness and love. And, to do Robinson justice, this last thought made his heart sicken and his flesh creep more than all the rest. He was like a man who had fallen asleep on the brink of an unseen precipice—awoke—and looked down.

The penitent man said his prayers this morning and vowed on his knees humility and a new life. Henceforth he would know himself; he would not attempt to guide himself; he would just obey his reverence. And to begin, whenever a temptation came in sight he would pray against it then and there and fly from it, and the moment his master returned he would leave the town and get away to honest George Fielding with his passport—Susan's letter.

With these prayers and these resolutions a calm complacency stole over him; he put his reverence's tract and George's letter in his bosom and came down into the kitchen.

The first person he met was the housemaid, Jenny.

"Oh, here is my lord!" cried she. "Where were you last night?"

Robinson stammered out, "Nowhere in particular. Why?"

"Oh, because the master was asking for you, and you weren't to be found high or low."

"What, is he come home?"

"Came home last night."

"I'll go and take him his hot water."

"Why, he is not in the house, stupid. He dressed the moment he came home and went out to a party. He swore properly at your not being in the way to help him dress."

"What did he say?" asked Robinson, a little uneasy.

The girl's eyes twinkled. "He said, 'How ever am I to lace myself now that scamp is not in the way?'"

"Come, none of your chaff, Jenny."

"Why you know you do lace him, and pretty tight, too."

"I do nothing of the kind."

"Oh, of course you won't tell on one another. Tell me our head scamp does not wear stays! A man would not be as broadshouldered as that and have a waist like a wasp and his back like a board without a little lacing, and a good deal, too."

"Well, have it your own way, Jenny. Won't you give me a morsel of breakfast?"

"Well, Tom, I can give you some just for form's sake; but bless you, you won't able to eat it."

"Why not?"

"Gents that are out all night bring a headache home in the morning in place of an appetite."

"But I was not out all night. I was at home soon after twelve."

"Really?"

"Really!"

"Tom?"

"Well, Jane!"

"Those that ain't clever enough to hide secrets should trust them to those that are."

"I don't know what you mean, my lass."

"Oh, nothing; only I sat up till halfpast one in the kitchen, and I listened till three in my room.

"You took a deal of trouble on my account."

"Oh, it was more curiosity than regard," was the keen reply.

"So I should say."

The girl colored and seemed nettled by this answer. She set demurely about the work of small vengeance. "Now," said she with great cordiality, "you tell me what you were doing all night and why you broke into the house like a—a—hem! instead of coming into it like a man, and then you'll save me the trouble of finding it out whether you like or not."

These words chilled Robinson. What! had a spy been watching him—perhaps for days—and above all a female spy—a thing with a velvet paw, a noiseless step, an inscrutable countenance, and a microscopic eye.

He hung his head over his cup in silence. Jenny's eye was scanning him. He felt that without seeing it. He was uneasy under it, but his self-reproach was greater than his uneasiness.

At this juncture the street door was opened with a latch-key. "Here comes the head scamp,' said Jenny, with her eye on Robinson. The next moment a bell was rung sharply. Robinson rose.

"Finish your breakfast," said Jenny, "I'll answer the bell," and out she went. She returned in about ten minutes with a dressing-gown over her arm and a pair of curling-irons in her hand. "There," said she, "you are to go in the parlor, and get up the young buck; curl his nob and whiskers. I wish it was me, I'd curl his ear the first thing I'd curl."

"What, Jane, did you take the trouble to bring them down for me?"

"They look like it," replied the other tartly, as if she repented the good office.

Robinson went in to his master. He expected a rebuke for being out of the way; but no! he found the young gentleman in excellent humor and high spirits. "Help me off with this coat, Tom."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh! not so rough, confound you. Ah! Ugh!"

"Coat's a little too tight, sir."

"No it isn't—it fits me like a glove but I am stiff and sore. There, now, get me a shirt."

Robinson came back with the shirt, and aired it close to the fire; and this being a favorable position for saying what he felt awkward about, he began:

"Mr. Miles, sir."

"Hallo!"

"I am going to ask you a favor."

"Out with it!"

"You have been a kind master to me."

"I should think I have, too. By Jove, you won't find such another in a hurry."

"No, sir, I am sure I should not, but there is an opening for me of a different sort altogether. I have a friend, a squatter, near Bathurst, and I am to join him if you will be so kind as to let me go."

"What an infernal nuisance!" cried the young gentleman, who was like most boys, good-natured and selfish. "The moment I get a servant I like he wants to go to the devil."

"Only to Bathurst, sir," said Robinson deprecatingly, to put him in a good humor.

"And what am I to do for another?"

At this moment in came Jenny with all the paraphernalia of breakfast. "Here, Jenny," cried he, "here's Robinson wants to leave us. Stupid ass!"

Jenny stood transfixed with the tray in her hand. "Since when?" asked she of her master, but looking at Robinson.

"This moment. The faithful creature greeted my return with that proposal."

"Well, sir, a servant isn't a slave and suppose he has a reason?"

"Oh! they have always got a reason, such as it is. Wants to go and squat at Bathurst. Well, Tom, you are a fool for leaving us, but of course we shan't pay you the compliment of keeping you against your will, shall we?" looking at Jane.

"What have I to do with it?" replied she, opening her gray eyes. "What is it to me whether he goes or stays?"

"Come, I like that. Why you are the housemaid and he is the footman, and those two we know are always"—and the young gentleman eked out his meaning by whistling a tune.

"Mr. Miles," said Jenny, very gravely, like an elder rebuking a younger, "you must excuse me, sir, but I advise you not to make so free with your servants. Servants are encroaching, and they will be sure to take liberties with you in turn; and," turning suddenly red and angry, "if you talk like that to me I shall leave the room."

"Well, if you must! you must! but bring the tea-kettle back with you. That is a duck!"

Jenny could not help laughing, and went for the tea-kettle. On her return Robinson made signals to her over the master's head, which he had begun to frizz. At first she looked puzzled, but following the direction of his eye she saw that her master's right hand was terribly cut and swollen. "Oh!" cried the girl. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"Eh?" cried Mr. Miles, "what is the row?"

"Look at your poor hand, sir!"

"Oh, ay! isn't it hideous. Met with an accident. Soon get well."

"No, it won't, not of itself; but I have got a capital lotion for bruises, and I shall bathe it for you."

Jenny brought in a large basin of warm water and began to foment it first, touching it so tenderly. "And his hand that was as white as a lady's," said Jenny pitifully, "po-o-r bo-y!" This kind expression had no sooner escaped her than she colored and bent her head down over her work, hoping it might escape notice.

"Young woman," said Mr. Miles with paternal gravity, "servants are advised not to make too free with their masters; or the beggars will forget their place and take liberties with you. He! He! He!"

Jenny put his hand quietly down into the water and got up and ran across the room for the door. Her course was arrested by a howl from the jocose youth.

"Murder! Take him off, Jenny; kick him; the beggar is curling and laughing at the same time. Confound you, can't you lay the irons down when I say a good thing. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

This strange trio chuckled a space. Miles the loudest. "Tom, pour out my tea; and you, Jenny, if you will come to the scratch again, ha! ha!—I'll tell you how I came by this."

This promise brought the inquisitive Jenny to the basin directly.

"You know Hazeltine?"

"Yes, sir, a tall gentleman that comes here now and then. That is the one you are to run a race with on the public course," put in Jenny, looking up with a scandalized air.

"That is the boy; but how the deuce did you know?"

"Gentlemen to run with all the dirty boys looking on like horses," remonstrated the grammatical one, "it is a disgrace."

"So it is—for the one that is beat. Well, I was to meet Hazeltine to supper out of town. By-the-by, you don't know Tom Yates?"

"Oh," said Jenny, "I have heard of him, too."

"I doubt that; there are a good many of his name."

"The rake, I mean; lives a mile or two out of Sydney.

"So do half a dozen more of them."

"This one is about the biggest gambler and sharper unhung."

"All right! that is my friend! Well, he gave us a thundering supper—lots of lush."

"What is lush?"

"Tea and coffee and barley-water, my dear. Oh! can't you put the thundering irons down when I say a good thing? Well, I mustn't be witty any more, the penalty is too severe."

I need hardly say it was not Mr. Miles's jokes that agitated Robinson now; on the contrary, in the midst of his curiosity and rising agitation these jokes seemed ghastly impossibilities.

"Well, at ten o'clock we went upstairs to a snug little room, and all four sat down to a nice little green table."

"To gamble?"

"No! to whist; but now comes the fun. We had been playing about four hours, and the room was hot, and Yates was gone for a fresh pack, and old Hazeltine was gone into the drawing-room to cool himself. Presently he comes back and he says in a whisper, "Come here, old fellows." We went with him to the drawing-room, and at first sight we saw nothing, but presently flash came a light right in our eyes; it seemed to come from something glittering in the field. And these flashes kept coming and going. At last we got the governor, and he puzzled over it a little while. 'I know what it is,' cried he, 'it is my cucumber glass.'"

Jenny looked up. "Glass might glitter," said she, "but I don't see how it could flash."

"No more did we, and we laughed in the governor's face; for all that we were wrong. 'There is somebody under that wall with a dark lantern,' said Tom Yates, 'and every now and then the glass catches the glare and reflects it this way.' 'Solomon!' cried the rest of us. The fact is, Jenny, when Tom Yates gets half drunk he develops sagacity more than human. (Robinson gave a little groan.) Aha," cried Miles, "the beggar has burned his finger. I'm glad of it. Why should I be the only sufferer by his thundering irons? 'Here is a lark,' said I, 'we'll nab this dark lantern—won't we, Hazy?' 'Rather,' said Hazy. 'Wait till I get my pistols, and I'll give you a cutlass, George,' says Tom Yates. I forget who George was; but he said he was of noble blood, and I think myself he was some relation to the King-of-trumps, the whole family came about him so—mind my hair now. 'Oh, bother your artillery,' said I. 'Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just.' When I'm a little cut you may know it by my quoting Shakespeare. When I'm sober I don't remember a word of him—and don't want to."

"No, the Sporting Magazine, that is your Bible, sir," suggested Jenny.

"Yes, and let me read it without your commentary—mind my hair now. Where was I? Oh. Hazeltine and I opened the door softly and whipped out, but the beggar was too sharp for us. No doubt he heard the door. Anyway, before we could get through the shrubbery he was off, and we heard him clattering down the road ever so far off. However we followed quietly on the grass by the road-side at a fair traveling pace, and by and by what do you think? Our man had pulled up in the middle of the road and stood stock still. 'That is a green trick,' thought I. However, before we could get up to him he saw us or heard us, and off down the road no end of a pace. 'Tally ho!' cried I. Out came Hazy from the other hedge, and away we went—'Pug' ahead, 'Growler' and 'Gay-lad' scarce twenty yards from his brush, and the devil take the hindmost. Well, of course, we made sure of catching him in about a hundred yards—two such runners as Hazy and me—"

"And did not you?"

"I'll tell you. At first we certainly gained on him a few yards, but after that I could not near him. But Hazy put on a tremendous spurt, and left me behind for all I could do. 'Here is a go,' thought I, 'and I have backed myself for a hundred pounds in a half-mile race against this beggar.' Well, I was behind, but Hazy and the fox seemed to me to be joined together running, when all of a sudden—pouff! Hazy's wind and his pluck blew out together. He tailed off. Wasn't I pleased! 'Good-by, Hazy,' says I, as I shot by him and took up the running. Well, I tried all I knew; but this confounded fellow ran me within half a mile of Sydney (N. B., within two miles of it). My throat and all my inside was like an oven, and I was thinking of tailing off, too, when I heard the beggar puff and blow, so then I knew I must come up with him before long."

"And did you, sir?" asked Jenny in great excitement.

"Yes," said the other, "I passed him even."

"But did you catch him?"

"Well! why—yes—I caught him—as the Chinese caught the Tartar. This was one of your downy coves that are up to every move. When he found he hadn't legs to run from me he slips back to meet me. Down he goes under my leg—I go blundering over him twenty miles an hour. He lifts me clear over his head and I come flying down from the clouds heel over tip. I'd give twenty pounds to know how it was done, and fifty to see it done—to a friend, All I know is that I should have knocked my own brains out if it had not been for my hat and my hand—they bore the brunt between them, as you see."

"And what became of the poor man?" asked Jane.

"Well, when the poor man had flung me over his head he ran on faster than ever, and by the time I had shaken my knowledge-box and found out north from south, I heard the poor man's nailed shoes clattering down the road. To start again a hundred yards behind a poor man who could run like that would have been making a toil of a trouble, so I trotted back to meet Hazy.

"Well, I am glad he got off clear—ain't you, Tom?"

"Yes—no. A scoundrel that hashed the master like this—why, Jane, you must be mad!"

"Spare your virtuous indignation," said the other coolly. "Remember I had been hunting him like a wild beast till his heart was nearly broke, and, when I was down, he could easily have revenged himself by giving me a kick with his heavy shoes on the head or the loins that would have spoiled my running for a month of Sundays. What do you say to that?"

Robinson colored. "I say you are very good to make excuses for an unfortunate man—for a rascal—that is to say, a burglar; a—"

"And how do you know he was all that?" asked Jenny very sharply.

"Why did he run if he was not guilty?" inquired Robinson cunningly.

"Guilty—what of?" asked Jenny.

"That is more than I can tell you," replied Robinson.

"I dare say," said Jenny, "it was some peaceable man that took fright at seeing two wild young gentlemen come out like mad bulls after him."

"When I have told you my story you will be better able to judge."

"What, isn't the story ended?"

"Ended? The cream of it is coming."

"Oh, sir," cried Jenny, "please don't go on till I come back. I am going for the cold lotion now; I have fomented it enough."

"Well, look sharp, then—here is the other all in a twitter with excitement."

"Me, sir? No—yes. I am naturally interested."

"Well, you haven't been long. I don't think I want any lotion, the hot water has done it a good deal of good."

"This will do it more."

"But do you know it is rather a bore to have only one hand to cut bread and butter with?"

"I'll cut it, sir," said Robinson, laying down his irons for a moment.

"How long shall you be, Jenny?" asked Mr. Miles.

"I shall have done by when your story is done," replied she coolly.

Mr. Miles laughed. "Well, Jenny," said he, "I hadn't walked far before I met Hazeltine. 'Have you got him?' says he. 'Do I look like it?' said I rather crustily. Fancy a fool asking me whether I had got him! So I told him all about it, and we walked back together. By-and-by we met the other two just outside the gate. Well, just as we were going in Tom Yates said, 'I say, suppose we look round the premises before we go to bed.' We went softly round the house and what did we find but a window with the glass taken out; we poked about and we found a pair of shoes. 'Why, there's some one in the house,' says Tom Yates, 'as I'm a sinner.' So we held a council of war. Tom was to go into the kitchen, lock the door leading out, and ambush in the larder with his pistols; and we three were to go in by the front door and search the house. Well, Hazeltine and I had got within a yard or two of it and the knave of trumps in the rear with a sword or something, when, by George! sir, the door began to open, and out slips a fellow quietly. Long Hazy and I went at him, Hazy first. Crack he caught Hazy on the head with a bludgeon, down went daddy-long-legs, and I got entangled in him, and the robber cut like the wind for the kitchen. 'Come on,' shouted I to the honorable thingunibob, bother his name—there—the knave of trumps, and I pulled up Hazy but couldn't wait for him, and after the beggar like mad. Well, as I came near the kitchen-door I heard a small scrimmage, and back comes my man flying bludgeon in one hand and knife in the other, both whirling over his head like a windmill. I kept cool, doubled my right, and put in a heavy one from the armpit; you know, Tom; caught him just under the chin, you might have heard his jaw crack a mile off; down goes my man on his back flat on the bricks, and his bludgeon rattled one way and his knife the other—such a lark. Oh! oh! oh! what are you doing, Robinson, you hurt me most confoundedly—I won't tell you any more. So now he was down, in popped the knave of swords and fell on him, and Hazy came staggering in after and insulted him a bit and we bagged him."

"And the other, sir," asked Tom, affecting an indifferent tone, "he didn't get off, I hope?"

"What other?" inquired Jenny.

"The other unfor—the other rascal—the burglar."

"Why he never said there were two."

"Y—yes!—he said they found their shoes."

"No, he said he found a pair of shoes."

"For all that you are wrong, Jenny, and he is right—there were two; and, what is more, Tom Yates had got the other, threatening to blow out his brains if he moved, so down he sat on the dresser and took it quite easy and whistled a tune while we trussed the other beggar with his own bludgeon and our chokers. Tom Yates says the cool one tumbled down from upstairs just as we drove our one in. Tom let them try the door before he bounced out; then my one flung a chair at Tom's head and cut back, Tom nailed the other and I floored mine. Hurrah!"

Through this whole narrative Robinson had coolly and delicately to curl live hair with a beating heart, and to curl the very man who was relating all the time how he had hunted him and caught his comrades. Meantime a shrewd woman there listening with all her ears, a woman, too, who had certain vague suspicions about him, and had taken him up rather sharper than natural, he thought, when, being off his guard for a moment he anticipated the narrator, and assumed there were two burglars in the house.

Tom, therefore, though curious and anxious, shut his face and got on his guard, and it was with an admirable imitation of mere sociable curiosity that he inquired, "And what did the rascals say for themselves?"

"What could they say?" said Jenny, "they were caught in the fact."

"To do them justice they did not speak of themselves, but they said three or four words too—very much to the point."

"How interesting it is!" cried Jenny—"what about?"

"Well! it was about your friend."

"My friend?"

"The peaceable gentleman the two young ruffians had chased down the road."

"Oh! he was one of them," said Jane, "that is plain enough now in course. What did they say about him?"

"'Sold!' says my one to Tom's. 'And no mistake,' says Tom's. Oh! they spoke out, took no more notice of us four than if we had no ears. Then says mine: 'What do you think of your pal now?' and what do you think Tom's answered, Jenny?—it was rather a curious answer—multum in parvo as we say at school, and one that makes me fear there is a storm brewing for our mutual friend, the peaceable gentleman, Jenny—alias the downy runner."

"Why, what did he say?"

"He said, 'I think—he won't be alive this day week! '"

"The wretches!"

"No! you don't see—they thought he had betrayed them."

"But, of course, you undeceived them," said Robinson.

"No! I didn't. Why, you precious greenhorn, was that our game?"

"Well, sir," cried Robinson cheerfully, "any way it was a good night's work. The only thing vexes me," added he, with an intense air of mortification, "is that the worst scoundrel of the lot got clear off; that is a pity—a downright pity."

"Make your mind easy," replied Mr. Miles calmly, "he won't escape; we shall have him before the day is out."

"Will you, sir? that is right—but how?"

"The honorable thingumbob, Tom Yates's friend, put us up to it. We sent the pair down to Sydney in the break and we put Yates's groom (he is a ticket-of-leave) in with them, and a bottle of brandy, and he is to condole with them and have a guinea if they let out the third man's name, and they will—for they are bitter against him."

Robinson sighed. "What is the matter?" said his master, trying to twist his head round.

"Nothing! only I am afraid they—they won't split; fellows of that sort don't split on a comrade where they can get no good by it."

"Well, if they don't, still we shall have him. One of us saw his face."

"Ah!"

"It was the honorable—the knave of trumps. While Yates was getting the arms, Trumps slipped out by the garden gate and caught a glimpse of our friend; he saw him take the lantern up and fling it down and run. The light fell full on his face and he could swear to it out of a thousand. So the net is round our friend and we shall have him before the day is out."

Dring-a-dong-dring" (a ring at the bell).

"Have you done, Tom?"

"Just one more turn, sir."

"Then, Jenny, you see who that is?"

Jenny went and returned with an embossed card, "It is a young gentleman—mustache and lavender gloves; oh, such a buck!"

"Who can it be? the 'Honorable George Lascelles?' why that is the very man. I remember he said he would do himself the honor to call on me. That is the knave of trumps; go down directly, Robinson, and tell him I'm at home and bring him up."

"Yes, sir!"

"Yes, sir! Well, then, why don't you go!"

"Um! perhaps Jenny will go while I clear these things away;" and without waiting for an answer Robinson hastened to encumber himself with the tea-tray, and flung the loaf and curling-irons into it, and bustled about and showed a sudden zeal lest this bachelor's room should appear in disorder; and as Jenny mounted the front stairs followed by the sprig of nobility, he plunged heavily laden down the back stairs into the kitchen and off with his coat and cleaned knives like a mad thing.

"Oh! if I had but a pound in my pocket," thought he, "I would not stay another hour in Sydney. I'd get my ring and run for Bathurst and never look behind me. How comfortable and happy I was until I fell back into the old courses, and now see what a life mine has been ever since! What a twelve hours! hunted like a wild beast, suspected and watched by my fellow-servant and forced to hide my thoughts from this one and my face from that one; but I deserve it and I wish it was ten times as bad. Oh! you fool—you idiot—you brute—it is not the half of what you deserve. I ask but one thing of Heaven—that his reverence may never know; don't let me break that good man's heart; I'd much rather die before the day is out!"

At this moment Jenny came in. Robinson cleaned the poor knives harder still and did not speak; his cue was to find out what was passing in the girl's mind. But she washed her cup and saucer and plates in silence. Presently the bell rang.

"Tom!" said Jenny quietly.

"Would you mind going, Jenny?"

"Me! it is not my business."

"No, Jenny! but once in a way if you will be so kind."

"Once! why I have been twice to the door for you to-day. You to your place and I to mine. Shan't go!"

"Look at me with my coat off and covered with brickdust."

"Put your coat on and shake the dust off."

"Oh, Jenny! that is not like you to refuse me such a trifle. I would not disoblige you so."

"I didn't refuse," said Jenny, making for the door; "I only said 'no' once or twice—we don't call that refusing;" but as she went out of the door she turned sharp as if to catch Robinson's face off its guard; and her gray eye dwelt on him with one of those demure, inexplicable looks her sex can give all ab extra—seeing all, revealing nothing.

She returned with her face on fire. "That is what I get for taking your place!"

"What is the matter?"

"That impudent young villain wanted to kiss me."

"Oh! is that all?"

"No! it is not all; he said I was the prettiest girl in Sydney" (with an appearance of rising indignation).

"Well! but, Jenny, that is no news, I could have told him that."

"Then why did you never tell me?"

"I thought by your manner—you knew it."

Having tried to propitiate the foe thus, Robinson lost no more time, but went upstairs and asked Mr. Miles for the trifle due to him as wages. Mr. Miles was very sorry, but he had been cleaned out at his friend Yates's—had not a shilling left and no hopes of any for a fortnight to come.

"Then, sir," said Robinson doggedly, "I hope you will allow me to go into the town and try and make a little for myself, just enough to pay my traveling expenses.

"By all means," was the reply; "tell me if you succeed—and I'll borrow a sovereign of you."

Out went Robinson into the town of Sydney. He got into a respectable street, and knocked at a good house with a green door. He introduced himself to the owner as a first-rate painter and engrainer, and offered to turn this door into a mahogany, walnut, oak or what-not door. "The house is beautiful, all but the door," said sly Tom; "it is blistered."

"I am quite content with it as it is," was the reply in a rude, supercilious tone.

Robinson went away discomfited; he went doggedly down the street begging them all to have their doors beautified, and wincing at every refusal. At last he found a shopkeeper who had no objection, but doubted Robinson's capacity. "Show me what you can do," said he slyly, "and then I'll talk to you."

"Send for the materials," replied the artist, "and give me a board and I'll put half a dozen woods on the face of it."

"And pray," said the man, "why should I lay out my money in advertising you? No! you bring me a specimen, and if it is all right I'll give you the job."

"That is a bargain," replied Robinson, and went off. "How hard they make honesty to a poor fellow," muttered he bitterly, "but I'll beat them," and he clinched his teeth.

He went to a pawnbroker and pawned the hat off his head—it was a new one; then for a halfpenny he bought a sheet of brown paper and twisted it into a workman's cap; he bought the brushes and a little paint and a little varnish, and then he was without a penny again. He went to a wheelwright's and begged the loan of a small valueless worm-eaten board he saw kicking about, telling him what it was for. The wealthy wheelwright eyed him with scorn. "Should I ever see it again?" asked he ironically.

"Keep it for your coffin," said Robinson fiercely, and passed on. "How hard they make honesty to a poor fellow! I was a fool for asking for it when I might have taken it. What was there to hinder me? Honesty, my lass, you are bitter."

Presently he came to the suburbs and there was a small wooden cottage. The owner, a common laborer, was repairing it as well as he could. Robinson asked him very timidly if he could spare a couple of square feet off a board he was sawing. "What for?" Robinson showed his paintpot and brushes, and told him how he was at a stand-still for want of a board. "It is only a loan of it I ask," said he.

The man measured the plank carefully, and after some hesitation cut off a good piece. "I can spare that much," said he; "poor folk should feel for one another."

"I'll bring it back, you may depend," said Robinson.

"You needn't trouble," replied the laboring man with a droll wink, as much as to say, "Gammon!"

When Robinson returned to the skeptical shopkeeper with a board on which oak, satin-wood, walnut, etc., were imitated to the life in squares, that worthy gave a start and betrayed his admiration, and Robinson asked him five shillings more than he would if the other had been more considerate. In short, before evening the door was painted a splendid imitation of walnut-wood, the shopkeeper was enchanted, and Robinson had fifteen shillings handed over to him. He ran and got Mr. Eden's ring out of pawn, and kissed it and put it on; next he liberated his hat. He slept better this night than the last. "One more such day and I shall have enough to pay my expenses to Bathurst."

He turned, out early and went into the town. He went into the street where he had worked last evening, and when he came near this door there was a knot of persons round it. Robinson joined them. Presently one of the shop-boys cried out, "Why, here he is; this is the painter!"

Instantly three or four hands were laid on Robinson. "Come and paint my door."

"No, come and paint mine!"

"No, mine!"

Tom had never been in such request since he was an itinerant quack. His sly eye twinkled, and this artist put himself up to auction then and there. He was knocked down to a tradesman in the same street—twenty-one shillings the price of this door (mock mahogany). While he was working commissions poured in and Robinson's price rose, the demand for him being greater than the supply. The mahogany door was really a chef-d'oeuvre. He came home triumphant with thirty shillings in his pocket, he spread them out on the kitchen table and looked at them with a pride and a thrill of joy money never gave him before. He had often closed the shutters and furtively spread out twice as many sovereigns, but they were only his, these shillings were his own. And they were not only his own but his own by labor. Each sacred shilling represented so much virtue; for industry is a virtue. He looked at them with a father's pride.

How sweet the butter our own hands have churned!—T. T.

He blessed his reverend friend for having taught him an art in a dunghole where idiots and savages teach crank. He blessed his reverence's four bones, his favorite imprecation of the benevolent kind. I conclude the four bones meant the arms and legs. If so it would have been more to the point had he blessed the fifth—the skull.

Jenny came in and found him gloating over his virtuous shillings. She stared. He told her what he had been about these two days past, his difficulties, his success, the admiration his work excited throughout the capital (he must exaggerate a little or it would not be Tom Robinson), and the wealth he was amassing.

Jenny was glad to hear this, very glad, but she scolded him well for pawning his hat. "Why didn't you ask me?" said she; "I would have lent you a pound or even two, or given them you for any honest purpose." And Jenny pouted and got up a little quarrel.

The next day a gentleman caught Robinson and made him paint two doors in his fancy villa. Satin-wood this time; and he received three pounds three shillings, a good dinner, and what Bohemians all adore—Praise. Now as he returned in the evening a sudden misgiving came to him. "I have not thought once of Bathurst to-day. I see—all this money-making is a contrivance to keep me in Sydney. It is absurd my coining paint at this rate. I see your game, my lad; either I am to fall into bad company again, or to be split upon and nabbed for that last job. To-morrow I will be on the road to Bathurst. I can paint there just as well as here; besides I have got my orders from his reverence to go, and I'll go."

He told Jane his resolution. She made no answer. While these two were sitting cozily by the fireside—for since Robinson took to working hard all day he began to relish the hearth at night—suddenly cheerful, boisterous voices, and Mr. Miles and two friends burst in and would have an extempore supper, and nothing else would serve these libertines but mutton-chops off the gridiron. So they invaded the kitchen. Out ran Jenny to avoid them—or put on a smarter cap; and Robinson was to cut the chops and lay a cloth on the dresser and help cook. While his master went off to the cellar the two rakes who remained chattered and laughed both pretty loud. They had dined together and the bottle had not stood still.

"I have heard that voice before," thought Robinson. "It is a very peculiar voice. Whose voice is that?"

He looked the gentleman full in the face and could hardly suppress a movement of surprise.

The gentleman by the instinct of the eye caught his, and his attention was suddenly attracted to Robinson, and from that moment his eye was never off Robinson, following him everywhere. Robinson affected not to notice this; the chops were grilling, Jenny came in and bustled about and pretended not to hear the side-compliments of the libertines. Presently the young gentleman with the peculiar voice took out his pocketbook and said, "I have a bet to propose. I'll bet you fifty pounds I find the man you two hunted down the road on Monday night."

"No takers," replied Mr. Hazeltine with his mouth full.

"Stop a bit. I don't care if I make a time bet," said Miles. "How soon will you bet you catch him?"

"In half an hour," was the cool reply. And the Honorable George while making it managed at the same time in a sauntering sort of way to put himself between Robinson and the door that led out into the garden. Robinson eyed him in silence and never moved.

"In half a hour. That is a fair bet," said Mr. Miles. "Shall I take him?"

"Better not; he is a knowing one. He has seen him to earth somewhere or he would not offer you such a bet."

"Well, I'll bet you five to three," proposed the Honorable George.

"Done!"

"Done!"

Robinson put in a hasty word: "And what is to become of Thimble-rig Jem, sir?" These words, addressed to Mr. Lascelles, produced a singular effect. That gentleman gave an immediate shiver, as if a bullet had passed clean through him and out again, then opened his eyes and looked first at one door then at the other as if hesitating which he should go by. Robinson continued, addressing him with marked respect, "What I mean, sir, is that there is a government reward of two hundred pounds for Thimble-rig Jem, and the police wouldn't like to be drawn away from two hundred pounds after a poor fellow like him you saw on Monday night, one that is only suspected and no reward offered. Now Jem is a notorious culprit."

"Who is this Jem, my man? What is he?" asked Mr. Lascelles with a composure that contrasted remarkably with his late emotion.

"A convict escaped from Norfolk Island, sir; an old offender. I fell in with him once. He has forgotten me I dare say, but I never forget a man. They say he has grown a mustache and whiskers and passes himself off for a nob; but I could swear to him."

"How? By what?" cried Mr. Miles.

"If he should ever be fool enough to get in my way—"

"Hang Thimble-rig Jem," cried Hazeltine. "Is it a bet, Lascelles?"

"What?"

"That you nab our one in half an hour?" Mr. Lascelles affected an aristocratic drawl. "No, I was joking. I couldn't afford to leave the fire for thirty pounds. Why should I run after the poor dayvil? Find him yourselves. He never annoyed me. Got a cigar, Miles?"

After their chops, etc., the rakes went off to finish the night elsewhere.

"There, they are gone at last! Why, Jenny, how pale you look!" said Robinson, not seeing the color of his own cheek. "What is wrong?" Jenny answered by sitting down and bursting out crying. Tom sat opposite her with his eyes on the ground.

"Oh, what I have gone through this day!" cried Jenny. "Oh! oh! oh! oh!" sobbing convulsively.

What could Tom do but console her? And she found it so agreeable to be consoled that she prolonged her distress. An impressionable Bohemian on one side a fireplace, and a sweet, pretty girl crying on the other, what wonder that two o'clock in the morning found this pair sitting on the same side of the fire aforesaid—her hand in his?

The next morning at six o'clock Jenny was down to make his breakfast for him before starting. If she had said, "Don't go," it is to be feared the temptation would have been too strong, but she did not; she said sorrowfully, "You are right to leave this town." She never explained. Tom never heard from her own lips how far her suspicions went. He was a coward, and seeing how shrewd she was, was afraid to ask her; and she was one of your natural ladies who can leave a thing unsaid out of delicacy.

Tom Robinson was what Jenny called "capital company." He had won her admiration by his conversation, his stories of life, and now and then a song, and by his good looks and good nature. She disguised her affection admirably until he was in danger and about to leave her—and then she betrayed herself. If she was fire he was tow. At last it came to this: "Don't you cry so, dear girl. I have got a question to put to you—IF I COME BACK A BETTER MAN THAN I GO, WILL YOU BE MRS. ROBINSON?"

"Yes."



CHAPTER LI.

ROBINSON started for Bathurst. Just before he got clear of the town he passed the poor man's cottage who had lent him the board. "Bless me, how came I to forget him?" said he. At that moment the man came out to go to work. "Here I am," said Robinson, meeting him full, "and here is your board;" showing it to him painted in squares. "Can't afford to give it you back—it is my advertisement. But here is half-a-crown for it and for your trusting me."

"Well, to be sure," cried the man. "Now who'd have thought this? Why, if the world is not turning honest. But half-a-crown is too much; 'tain't worth the half of it."

"It was worth five pounds to me. I got employment through it. Look here," and he showed him several pounds in silver; "all this came from your board; so take your half-crown and my thanks on the head of it."

The half-crown lay in the man's palm; he looked in Robinson's face. "Well," cried he with astonishment, "you are the honestest man ever I fell in with."

"I am the honestest man! You will go to heaven for saying those words to me," cried Robinson warmly and with agitation. "Good-by, my good, charitable soul; you deserve ten times what you have got," and Robinson made off.

The other, as soon as he recovered the shock, shouted after him, "Good-by, honest man, and good luck wherever you go."

And Robinson heard him scuttle about and hastily convene small boys and dispatch them down the road to look at an honest man. But the young wood did not kindle at his enthusiasm. Had the rarity been a bear with a monkey on him, well and good.

"I'm pretty well paid for a little honesty," thought Robinson. He stepped gallantly out in high spirits, and thought of Jenny, and fell in love with her, and saw in her affection yet another inducement to be honest and industrious. Nothing of note happened on his way to Bathurst, except that one day as he was tramping along very hot and thirsty a luscious prickly pear hung over a wall, and many a respectable man would have taken it without scruple; but Tom was so afraid of beginning again he turned his back on it and ran on instead of walking to make sure.

When he reached Bathurst his purse was very low, and he had a good many more miles to go, and not feeling quite sure of his welcome he did not care to be penniless, so he went round the town with his advertising-board and very soon was painting doors in Bathurst. He found the natives stingier here than in Sydney, and they had a notion a traveler like him ought to work much cheaper than an established man; but still he put by something every day.

He had been three days in the town when a man stepped up to him as he finished a job and asked him to go home with him. The man took him to a small but rather neat shop, plumber's, glazier's and painter's.

"Why, you don't want me," said Robinson; "we are in the same line of business."

"Step in," said the man. In a few words he let Robinson know that he had a great bargain to offer him. "I am going to sell the shop," said he. "It is a business I never much fancied, and I had rather sell it to a stranger than to a Bathurst man, for the trade have offended me. There is not a man in the colony can work like you, and you may make a little fortune here."

Robinson's eyes sparkled a moment, then he replied, "I am too poor to buy a business. What do you want for it?"

"Only sixty pounds for the articles in the shop and the good will and all."

"Well, I dare say it is moderate, but how am I to find sixty pounds?"

"I'll make it as light as a feather. Five pounds down. Five pounds in a month; after that—ten pounds a month till we are clear. Take possession and sell the goods and work the good-will on payment of the first five."

"That is very liberal," said Robinson. "Well, give me till next Thursday and I'll bring you the first five."

"Oh, I can't do that; I give you the first offer, but into the market it goes this evening, and no later."

"I'll call this evening and see if I can do it." Robinson tried to make up the money, but it was not to be done. Then fell a terrible temptation upon him. Handling George Fielding's letter with his delicate fingers, he had satisfied himself there was a bank-note in it. Why not borrow this bank-note? The shop would soon repay it. The idea rushed over him like a flood. At the same moment he took fright at it. "Lord, help me!" he ejaculated.

He rushed to a shop, bought two or three sheets of brown paper and a lot of wafers. With nimble fingers he put the letter in one parcel, that parcel in another, that in another, and so on till there were a dozen envelopes between him and the irregular loan. This done he confided the grand parcel to his landlord.

"Give it me when I start."

He went no more near the little shop till he had made seven pounds; then he went. The shop and business had been sold just twenty-four hours. Robinson groaned. "If I had not been so very honest! Never mind. I must take the bitter with the sweet."

For all that the town became distasteful to him. He bought a cheap revolver—for there was a talk of bushrangers in the neighborhood—and started to walk to George Fielding's farm. He reached it in the evening.

"There is no George Fielding here," was the news. "He left this more than six months ago."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Not I."

Robinson had to ask everybody he met where George Fielding was gone to. At last, by good luck, he fell in with George's friend, McLaughlan, who told him it was twenty-five miles off.

"Twenty-five miles? that must be for to-morrow, then."

McLaughlan told him he knew George Fielding very well. "He is a fine lad." Then he asked Robinson what was his business. Robinson took down a very thin light board with ornamented words painted on it.

"That is my business," said he.

At the sight of a real business the worthy Scot offered to take care of him for the night, and put him on the road to Fielding's next morning. Next morning Robinson painted his front door as a return for bed and breakfast. McLaughlan gave him somewhat intricate instructions for to-morrow's route. Robinson followed them and soon lost his way. He was set right again, but lost it again; and after a tremendous day's walk made up his mind he should have to camp in the open air and without his supper—when he heard a dog baying in the distance. "There is a house of some kind anyway," thought Robinson, "but where?—I see none—better make for the dog."

He made straight for the sound, but still he could not see any house. At last, however, coming over a hill he found a house beneath him, and on the other side of this house the dog was howling incessantly. Robinson came down the hill, walked round the house, and there sat the dog on the steps.

"Well, it is you for howling anyway," said Robinson.

"Anybody at home?" he shouted. No one answered, and the dog howled on.

"Why, the place is deserted, I think. Haven't I seen that dog before? Why, it is Carlo! Here, Carlo, poor fellow, Carlo, what is the matter?"

The dog gave a little whimper as Robinson stooped and patted him, but no sign of positive recognition, but he pattered into the house. Robinson followed him, and there he found the man he had come to see—stretched on his bed—pale and hollow-eyed and grisly—and looking like a corpse in the fading light.

Robinson was awestruck. "Oh! what is this?" said he. "Have I come all this way to bury him?"

He leaned over and felt his heart; it beat feebly but equably, and he muttered something unintelligible when Robinson touched him. Then Robinson struck a light, and right glad he was to find a cauldron full of gelatinized beef soup. He warmed some and ate a great supper, and Carlo sat and whimpered, and then wagged his tail and plucked up more and more spirit, and finally recognized Tom all in a moment somehow and announced the fact by one great disconnected bark and a saltatory motion. This done he turned to and also ate a voracious supper. Robinson rolled himself up in George's great-coat and slept like a top on the floor. Next morning he was waked by a tapping, and there was Carlo seated bolt upright with his tail beating the floor because George was sitting up in the bed looking about him in a puzzled way.

"Jacky," said he, "is that you?"

Robinson got up, rubbed his eyes, and came toward the bed. George stared in his face and rubbed his eyes, too, for he thought he must be under an ocular delusion. "Who are you?"

"A friend."

"Well! I didn't think to see you under a roof of mine again."

"Just the welcome I expected," thought Robinson bitterly. He answered coldly: "Well, as soon as you are well you can turn me out of your house, but I should say you are not strong enough to do it just now."

"No, I am weak enough, but I am better—I could eat something."

"Oh, you could do that! what! even if I cooked it? Here goes, then."

Tom lit the fire and warmed some beef soup. George ate some, but very little; however he drank a great jugful of water—then dozed and fell into a fine perspiration. It was a favorable crisis, and from that moment youth and a sound constitution began to pull him through; moreover no assassin had been there with his lancet.

Behold the thief turned nurse! The next day as he pottered about clearing the room, opening or shutting the windows, cooking and serving, he noticed George's eye following him everywhere with a placid wonder which at last broke into words:

"You take a deal of trouble about me."

"I do," was the dry answer.

"It is very good of you, but—"

"You would as lieve it was anybody else; but your other friends have left you to die like a dog," said Robinson sarcastically. "Well, they left you when you were sick—I'll leave you when you are well."

"What for? Seems to me that you have earned a right to stay as long as you are minded. The man that stands by me in trouble I won't bid him go when the sun shines again."

And at this precise point in his sentence, without the least warning, Mr. Fielding ignited himself—and inquired with fury whether it came within Robinson's individual experience that George Fielding was of an ungrateful turn, or whether such was the general voice of fame. "Now, don't you get in a rage and burst your boiler," said Robinson. "Well, George—without joking, though—I have been kind to you. Not for nursing you—what Christian would not do that for his countryman and his old landlord sick in a desert?—but what would you think of me if I told you I had come a hundred and sixty miles to bring you a letter? I wouldn't show it you before, for they say exciting them is bad for fever, but I think I may venture now; here it is." And Robinson tore off one by one the twelve envelopes, to George's astonishment and curiosity. "There."

"I don't know the hand," said George. But opening the inclosure he caught a glance of a hand he did know, and let everything else drop on the bed, while he held this and gazed at it, and the color flushed into his white cheek. "Oh!" cried he, and worshipped it in silence again; then opened it and devoured it. First came some precious words of affection and encouragement. He kissed the letter. "You are a good fellow to bring me such a treasure; and I'll never forget it as long as I live!"

Then he went back to the letter. "There is something about you, Tom!"

"About me?"

"She tells me you never had a father, not to say a father—"

"She says true."

"Susan says that is a great disadvantage to any man, and so it is—and—poor fellow—"

"What?"

"She says they came between your sweetheart and you—Oh! poor Tom!"

"What?"

"You lost your sweetheart; no wonder you went astray after that. What would become of me if I lost my Susan? And—ay, you were always better than me, Susan. She says she and I have never been sore tempted like you."

"Bless her little heart for making excuses for a poor fellow; but she was always a charitable, kind-hearted young lady."

"Wasn't she, Tom?"

"And what sweet eyes!"

"Ain't they, Tom? brimful of heaven I call them."

"And when she used to smile on you, Master George, oh! the ivories."

"Now you take my hand this minute. How foolish I am. I can't see—now you shall read it on to me because you brought it."

"'And you, George, that are as honest a man as ever lived, do keep him by you a while, and keep him in the right way. He is well-disposed but weak—do it to oblige me.'"

"Will you stay with me, Tom?" inquired George, cheerful and business-like. "I am not a lucky man, but while I have a shilling there's sixpence for the man that brought me this—dew in the desert I call it. And to think you have seen her since I have; how was she looking; had she her beautiful color; what did she say to you with her own mouth?"

Then Robinson had to recall every word Susan had said to him; this done, George took the inclosure. "Stop, here is something for you: 'George Fielding is requested to give this to Robinson for the use of Thomas Sinclair.' There you are, Tom—well!—what is the matter?"

"Nothing. It is a name I have not heard a while. I did not know any creature but me knew it; is it glamour, or what?"

"Why, Tom! what is the matter? don't look like that. Open it, and let us see what there is inside."

Robinson opened it, and there was the five-pound note for him, with this line: "If you have regained the name of Sinclair, keep it."

Robinson ran out of the house, and walked to and fro in a state of exaltation. "I'm well paid for my journey; I'm well paid for not fingering that note! Who would not be honest if they knew the sweets? How could he know my name? is he really more than man? Keep it? Will I not!"



CHAPTER LII.

THE old attachment was revived. Robinson had always a great regard for George, and after nursing and bringing him through a dangerous illness this feeling doubled. And as for George, the man who had brought him a letter from Susan one hundred and sixty miles became such a benefactor in his eyes that he thought nothing good enough for him.

In a very few days George was about again and on his pony, and he and Robinson and Carlo went a shepherding. One or two bullocks had gone to Jericho while George lay ill, and the poor fellow's heart was sore when he looked at his diminished substance and lost time. Robinson threw himself heart and soul into the business, and was of great service to George; but after a bit he found it a dull life.

George saw this, and said to him: "You would do better in a town. I should he sorry to lose you, but if you take my advice you will turn your back on unlucky George, and try the paint-brush in Bathurst."

For Robinson had told him all about it—and painted his front door. "Can't afford to part from Honesty," was the firm reply.

George breathed again. Robinson was a great comfort to the weak, solitary, and now desponding man. One day for a change they had a thirty-mile walk, to see a farmer that had some beasts to sell a great bargain; he was going to boil them down if he could not find a customer. They found them all just sold. "Just my luck," said George.

They came home another way. Returning home, George was silent and depressed.

Robinson was silent, but appeared to be swelling with some grand idea. Every now and then he shot ahead under its influence. When they got home and were seated at supper, he suddenly put this question to George, "Did you ever hear of any gold being found in these parts?"

"No! never!"

"What, not in any part of the country?"

"No! never!"

"Well, that is odd!"

"I am afraid it is a very bad country for that."

"Ay to make it in, but not to find it in."

"What do you mean?"

"George," said the other, lowering his voice mysteriously, "in our walk to-day we passed places that brought my heart into my mouth; for if this was only California those places would be pockets of gold."

"But you see it is not California, but Australia, where all the world knows there is nothing of what your mind is running on."

"Don't say 'knows,' say 'thinks.' Has it ever been searched for gold?"

"I'll be bound it has; or, if not, with so many eyes constantly looking on every foot of soil a speck or two would have come to light."

"One would think so; but it is astonishing how blind folks are, till they are taught how to look, and where to look. 'Tis the mind that sees things, George, not the eye."

"Ah!" said George with a sigh, "this chat puts me in mind of 'The Grove.' Do you mind how you used to pester everybody to go out to California?"

"Yes! and I wish we were there now."

"And all your talk used to be gold—gold—gold."

"As well say it as think it."

"That is true. Well, we shall be very busy all day to-morrow, but in the afternoon dig for gold an hour or two—then you will be satisfied."

"But it is no use digging here; it was full five-and-twenty miles from here the likely-looking place."

"Then why didn't you stop me at the place?"

"Why?" replied Robinson, sourly, "because his reverence did so snub me whenever I got upon that favorite topic, that I really had got out of the habit. I was ashamed to say, 'George, let us stop on the road and try for gold with our finger-nails.' I knew I should only get laughed at."

"Well," said George sarcastically, "since the gold mine is twenty-five miles off, and our work is round about the door, suppose we pen sheep to-morrow—and dig for gold when there is nothing better to be done."

Robinson sighed. Unbucolical to the last degree was the spirit in which our Bohemian tended the flocks next morning.

His thoughts were deeper than the soil. And every evening up came the old topic. Oh! how sick George got of it. At last one night he said: "My lad, I should like to tell you a story—but I suppose I shall make a bungle of it; shan't cut the furrow clean I am doubtful."

"Never mind; try!"

"Well, then. Once upon a time there was an old chap that had heard or read about treasures being found in odd places, a pot full of guineas or something; and it took root in his heart till nothing would serve him but he must find a pot of guineas, too; he used to poke about all the old ruins. grubbing away, and would have taken up the floor of the church, but the churchwardens would not have it. One morning he comes down and says to his wife, 'It is all right, old woman, I've found the treasure.'

"'No! have you, though?' says she.

"'Yes!' says he; 'leastways, it is as good as found; it is only waiting till I've had my breakfast, and then I'll go out and fetch it in.'

"'La, John, but how did you find it?'

"'It was revealed to me in a dream,' says he, as grave as a judge.

"'And where is it?' asks the old woman.

"'Under a tree in our own orchard—no farther,' says he.

"'Oh, John! how long you are at breakfast to-day!' Up they both got and into the orchard. 'Now, which tree is it under?'

"John, he scratches his head, 'Blest if I know.'

"'Why, you old ninny,' says the mistress, 'didn't you take the trouble to notice?'

"'That I did,' said he; 'I saw plain enough which tree it was in my dream, but now they muddle it all, there are so many of 'em.'

"'Drat your stupid old head,' says she, 'why didn't you put a nick on the right one at the time?'"

Robinson burst out laughing. George chuckled. "Oh!" said he, "there were a pair of them for wisdom, you may take your oath of that. 'Well,' says he, 'I must dig till I find the right one.' The wife she loses heart at this; for there was eighty apple-trees, and a score of cherry-trees. 'Mind you don't cut the roots,' says she, and she heaves a sigh. John he gives them bad language, root and branch. 'What signifies cut or no cut; the old faggots—they don't bear me a bushel of fruit the whole lot. They used to bear two sacks apiece in father's time. Drat 'em.'

"'Well, John,' says the old woman, smoothing him down; 'father used to give them a deal of attention.'—' 'Tain't that! 'tain't that!' says he quick and spiteful-like; 'they have got old like ourselves, and good for fire-wood.' Out pickax and spade and digs three foot deep round one, and finding nothing but mould goes at another, makes a little mound all round him, too—no guinea-pot. Well, the village let him dig three or four quiet enough; but after that curiosity was awakened, and while John was digging, and that was all day, there was mostly seven or eight watching through the fence and passing jests. After a bit a fashion came up of flinging a stone or two at John; then John he brought out his gun loaded with dust-shot along with his pick and spade, and the first stone came he fired sharp in that direction and then loaded again. So they took that hint, and John dug on in peace—till about the fourth Sunday—and then the parson had a slap at him in church. 'Folks were not to heap up to themselves treasures on earth,' was all his discourse."

"Well, but," said Robinson, "this one was only heaping up mould."

"So it seemed when he had dug the five-score holes, for no pot of gold didn't come to light. Then the neighbors called the orchard 'Jacobs' Folly;' his name was Jacobs—John Jacobs. 'Now then, wife,' says he, 'suppose you and I look out for another village to live in, for their gibes are more than I can bear.' Old woman begins to cry. 'Been here so long—brought me home here, John—when we were first married, John—and I was a comely lass, and you the smartest young man I ever saw, to my fancy any way; couldn't sleep or eat my victuals in any house but this.'

"'Oh! couldn't ye? Well, then, we must stay; perhaps it will blow over.' — 'Like everything else, John; but, dear John, do ye fill in those holes; the young folk come far and wide on Sundays to see them.'

"'Wife, I haven't the heart,' says he. 'You see, when I was digging for the treasure I was always a-going to find, it kept my heart up; but take out shovel and fill them in—I'd as lieve dine off white of egg on a Sunday.' So for six blessed months the heaps were out in the heat and frost till the end of February, and then when the weather broke the old man takes heart and fills them in, and the village soon forgot 'Jacobs' Folly' because it was out of sight. Comes April, and out burst the trees. 'Wife,' says he, 'our bloom is richer than I have known it this many a year, it is richer than our neighbors'.' Bloom dies, and then out come about a million little green things quite hard."

"Ay! ay!" said Robinson; "I see."

"Michaelmas-day the old trees were staggering and the branches down to the ground with the crop; thirty shillings on every tree one with another; and so on for the next year, and the next; sometimes more, sometimes less, according to the year. Trees were old and wanted a change. His letting in the air to them, and turning the subsoil up to the frost and sun, had renewed their youth. So by that he learned that tillage is the way to get treasure from the earth. Men are ungrateful at times, but the soil is never ungrateful, it always makes a return for the pains we give it."

"Well, George," said Robinson, "thank you for your story; it is a very good one, and after it I'll never dig for gold in a garden. But now suppose a bare rock or an old river's bed, or a mass of shingles or pipe-clay, would you dig or manure them for crops?"