to the nearest gas-jet to read it. To the great
indignation of the waiter, the boy sat himself
down on the edge of a chair, and, kicking his
legs to and fro, surveyed the assembled
company with calm deliberation. He appeared to
be taking stock generally of everything round
him. Between his dirty finger and thumb he
took up a corner of the dinner-cloth, then he
passed his hand lightly over Dallas's overcoat,
which was lying on an adjacent chair. This gave
the waiter his chance of bursting out again.

"Leave that coat alone, cant you? Can't
you keep your fingers off things that don't
belong to you? Thought it was your own,
perhaps, didn't you?" This last remark, in a
highly sarcastic tone, as he lifted the coat from
the chair and was about to carry it to a row of
pegs by the door. " This ain't your mark, I
believe? Your tailor don't live at Hamherst,
does he?"

"Never mind my tailor, old cock! P'raps
you'd like my card, but I've 'appened to come
out without one. But you can have my name
and address—they're wery haristocratic, not
such as you're used to. Jim Swain's my name—
Strike-a-light-Jem—60, Fullwood's-rents. Now,
tell me who's your barber!" The waiter, who
had a head as bald as a billiard-ball, was highly
incensed at this remark (which sent some young
men at an adjoining table into roars of laughter),
and he would probably have found some means
of venting his wrath, had not a sharp exclamation
from Deane called off his attention.

"Get up dinner, waiter, at once, and clear
off this third place, d'ye hear? The other gentleman
ain't comin'. Now, boy, what are you
waiting for?"

"No answer to go back, is there, guv'nor?"

"Answer? No; none."

"All right. Shall I take that sixpence of you
now, or will you give it me to-morrow? Short
reck'nings is my motter. So if you're goin' to
give it, hand it over."

Unable to resist a smile, Deane took a small
coin from his purse and handed it to the boy,
who looked at it, put it in his pocket, nodded
carelessly to Deane and Dallas, and departed,
whistling loudly.

"Routh is not coming, I suppose?" said
Dallas, as they seated themselves at the table.

"No, he has defected, like a cussed skunk as
he is, after giving me the trouble to order his
dinner, which I shall have to pay for all the
same. Regular riles me that does, to be put in
the hole for such a one-horse concern as Mr.
Routh. He ought to know better than to play
such tricks with me."

"Perhaps he is compelled to absent himself.
I know—"

"Compelled! That might do with some
people, but it won't nohow do with me. I
allow no man to put a rudeness on me. Mr.
Routh wants more of me than I do of him, as
I'll show him before long. He wants me to
come to his rooms to-morrow night—that's for
his pleasure and profit, I guess, not mine—just
depends on the humour I'm in. Now here's the
dinner. Let's get at it at once. There's been
no screw in' nor scrapin' in the ordering of it, and
you can just give Routh a back-hander next time
you see him by telling him how much you liked it."

Deane unfolded his table-napkin with a flourish,
and cleared a place in front of him for his
plate. There was an evil expression on his face;
a mordant, bitter, savage expression, which
Dallas did not fail to remark. However, he took
no notice of it, and the conversation during
dinner was confined to ordinary common-places.

Mr. Deane had not boasted without reason;
the dinner was excellent, the wines were choice
and abundant, and with another kind of
companion George Dallas would have enjoyed
himself. But even in the discussion of the most
ordinary topics there was a low coarseness in
Deane's conversation, a vulgar self-sufficiency
and delight at his own shrewdness, a miserable
mistrust of every one, and a general arrogance
and conceit which were highly nettling and
repulsive. During dinner these amiable qualities
displayed themselves in Mr. Deane's communication
with the waiter; it was not until the
cloth had been removed, and they were taking
their first glass of port, that Deane reverted to
what had annoyed him before they sat down.

"That Routh's what they call a mean cuss,
t'other side the water," he commenced; "a
mean cuss he is, and nothing else. Throwing me
over in this way at the last minute, and never
sending word before, so that I might have said
we shall only be two instead of three, and saved
paying for him! He thinks he's cruel wide
awake, he does; but though he's been at it all
his life, and it's not six months since I first
caught sight of this little village nominated
London, I don't think there's much he could
put me up to now!"

He looked so expectant of a compliment, that
Dallas felt bound to say: " You certainly seem
to have made the most of your time!"

"Made the most of my time? I reckon I
have! Why, there's no s'loon, oyster-cellar,
dancing-shop, night-house of any name at all,
where I'm not regular well known. ' Here's the
Yankee,' they say, when I come in; not that
I'm that, but I've told 'em I hail from the
U-nited States, and that's why they call me the
Yankee. They know me, and they know I pay
my way as I go, and that I've got plenty of
money. Help yourself—good port this, ain't it?
—ought to be, for they charge eight shillings a
bottle for it. "Why, people out t'other side the
water, sir, they think I'm staying in titled
country-houses, and dining in Portland-place,
and going to hear oratorios. I've got letters of
introduction in my desk which would do all that,
and more. Never mind! I like to shake a
loose leg, and, as I flatter myself I can pretty
well take care of myself, I shake it!"

"Yes," said Dallas, in a slightly bitter tone,
with a vivid recollection of his losses at cards
to Deane; " yes, you can take care of yourself."

"Rather think so," repeated Deane, with a
jarring laugh. "There are two things which
are guiding principles with me—number one,