land for a time — a corroboration, too, of Routh's
statement that he was going into a different
line of life—for of course with his new views
an intimacy with Routh would be impossible,
whereas he could now let it drop quietly. He
would accept the money so kindly sent him,
and he would do the account of the herring
fishery for The Mercury, and he would get on
with ihe serial story for The Piccadilly, and——
Well, he would remain where he was and see
what turned up. The quiet, easy-going, dreamy
life suited George to a nicety; and if he had
been a little older, and had never seen Clare
Carruthers, he might, on very little provocation,
have accepted the Dutch far niente as the
realisation of human bliss.

So, having to remain in Holland for some few
days longer, and needing some money for
immediate spending, George Dallas bethought
him of his old friend Mr. Schaub, and strolled
to the Muiderstraat in search of him. He
found the old gentleman seated behind his
counter, bending over an enormous volume in
the Hebrew character, over the top of which
he glared through the silver-rimmed spectacles
at his visitor with anything but an inviting
glance. When, however, he recognised George,
which he did comparatively quickly, his
forbidding look relaxed, he put down the book,
and began nodding in a galvanised manner,
rubbing the palms of his hands together, and
showing the few fangs left in his mouth.

"Vat! Vart — Paul Vart! you here still?
Wass you not back gone to your own land,
Vart? You do no more vairks, Vart, you vaste
your time in Amsterdam, Vart — Paul Vart!"

"No; not that," said George, laughing;
" I have not gone home, certainly, but I've not
lost my time. I've been seeing to your country
and studying character. I've been to the
Hague."

"Ja, ja! the Hague! and, like your countrymen,
you have bought their die Japans, die
dogues, and punch-bowls. Ja, ja!"

George admitted the fact as to japan-ware
and china dogs, but denied the punch-bowls.

"Ja, ja!" groaned Mr. Schaub; " and here
in dis house I could have sold you straight
same, de straight same, and you save your money
for journey to Hague."

"Well, I haven't saved the money," said
George, with a laugh, " but I dare say I shall
be able to make something of what I saw there.
You'll be pleased to hear I am going to write a
story for The Piccadilly — they've engaged me."

"Wass Peek-a-teelies wass goot, ver goot,"
said Mr. Schaub; " better as Mercury — bigger,
higher, more stand!"

"Ah! but you mustn't run down The Mercury,
either. They've asked me to write a description
of the sailing of your herring-fleet. So I
must stop here for a few days, and I want you
to change me a Bank of England note."

"Ja, ja! with pleasure! Wass always likes
dis Bank of England notes; ist goot, and
clean, and so better as dirty Austrisch Prussich
money. Ah! he is not the same as I give you
other day! He is quite new and clean for
twenty pounds! Ja, ja!" he added, after holding
the note up to the light, " his vater-mark is
raight! A.F.! Vot is A.F.?., 17 April? Ah, you
don't know! You don't become it from  A. F.?
Course not! Veil, veil, let me see die course
of 'Change — denn I put him into my leetle
stock von English bank-note!"

The old man took up a newspaper that lay
on the counter before him and consulted it,
made a rapid calculation on a piece of paper,
and was about to turn round towards the
drawer where, as George remembered, he kept
his cash-box, when he stopped, handed George
the pen from behind his ear, dipped it into the
ink, and said:

"Veil, just write his name, Vart — Paul Vart,
on his back m-ja? And his date of month.
So! Vart — Paul Vart! m-ja! ist goot. Here's
die guldens."

George Dallas swept the gold pieces into his
pocket, nodded to the old man, and left the
shop. Mr. Schaub carefully locked away the
note, made an entry of its number and amount
in his ledger, and resumed his reading.

THE SOLDIER TIRED.

ABOUT eleven o'clock on the morning of the
eighth of September last, an old and bent man,
of uncertain gait, feebly felt his way with a
stick, along an unfamiliar path. It was the
veteran Waterloo-man,* whose history was told
in these pages in August last, taking his departure
from the " House," in which he had been
permitted to pass some six years of his old age,
as a national reward for fighting against " Boney"
in his youth.

* See WATERLOO AND THE WORKHOUSE, page
125 of the present volume

The old man's dress was as quaint as his gait.
A blue pilot overcoat, much too long for him, and
all "mote-eaten," as he described it, formed the
principal feature. A long-furred imitation beaver
hat, brushed backwards, a pair of yellow
corduroys, a blue cotton necktie, a small bundle,
and a gnarled and knotted walking-stick,
completed the costume. These clothes would have
been a little singular at any time; but there was
an air about them not belonging to other clothes
of even the same kind. They had been laid up
in the workhouse stores of " paupers' own
clothes" for six years; and, naturally, they wore
an unnatural air.

The wearer of these singular habiliments
picked his way — he is three-parts blind — to the
writer's house, where his outer man was
photographed, and his inner man refreshed.
Subsequently he was supplied with two sets of every
article necessary in the way of clothing from a
convenient "ready-made" shop; a fortnight's
temporary allowance was paid him; and, while
he was waiting for the carrier to call and take
him and his new stock of clothes to his native
village, he had a word or two to say.