fifteen years will do; in fact, he appeared to
understand his business perfectly—was firm,
but cordial, and evidently popular with the
tenants. And although Mrs. P. made the
notes which were to serve for the
agreements, and to refresh her husband's memory
when he came to fill up his diary; and
although he sometimes referred to her for a
figure or a fact, such as, " What did we
allow Mr. Coppice for bones? " it was
plain that the lady was not anxious to
show the doeskins which she had
undoubtedly appropriated from Dallington's
wardrobe.

It seemed that this was a visit of inspection
and preparation for a rent day; and,
thanks to Mrs. D.'s bustling system, everything
was settled before dinner, so we had a
delightful evening. The time previous to
the starting of the mail-train slipped
away like minutes; and, when the warning
bell brought us to the door to start,
the rain had cleared away, a sharp frost
had set in, and a bright moon promised
my friends a not unpleasant drive home.

We parted on the platform of the railway
with a promise that I would bring
my family at an early day to spend
a week at Blacthorne Grange instead of
my customary trip to Boreglen. As I
rolled and rattled on toward my journey's
end, digesting an excellent dinner with
my cap drawn over my eyes, shamming sleep
to escape conversation with a most
persevering bore from Manchester (he had
previously all but arrived at wager of battle with
the railway guard on the subject of a small
dog he was intent on smuggling without
paying), a series of dissolving views passed
before me, beginning with schooldays, and
ending with a long blank, and then a magical
reappearance of the principal figures.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

When I saw my wife, I told her of my adventure,
which was soon pleasantly endorsed by
a large basket of game, with a tin of cream,
and a short letter from Dick reminding me of
my promise; so as soon as the fine weather
set in, my wife never gave me any rest until I
fixed a day for the Dallingtons. The fact
was she was dying of curiosity to see and
know all about my school friend Dick.

We went down, for the first time, in the strawberry
season; and, one day after a good deal of
ingenious pumping on the part of my Annie,
as we sipped our claret, and looked out over
the haha, where our thoroughbred mare
and foal, Mrs. D.'s white pony, and half a
dozen nice Ayrshire cattle, were feeding, Dick
told me his story: skipping a bit of unpleasant
misery about his father's smash and
death. It ran thus:

When we parted in Lincoln's Inn Square,
years ago, I knew, but would not believe that
I was ruined, as I had never learnt anything.
I did nothing,—I paid what debts I was
pressed to pay—they were not much considering
the life I had been living, but enough to
make a large hole in the cash I had realised.
I sent my phaeton, my stable paraphernalia,
guns, ambulance, my dressing-cases, and
everything else I could spare, to auction, and
then went yachting to the Mediterranean;
where, although I was Sir John Hastings'
guest, and he did not wish me to be at any
expense,—I could not help getting rid of a
certain share of what I now know as petty cash.
The fact was, that always having had my
bills paid for me, having ordered clothes,
saddles and other things of the people who
served my father, it took me some time to
understand how many sovereigns there were
in a five-pound note.

At Naples we met Lord Bloom, whose
father was in the Cabinet, and Bloom himself
was joint secretary to something that gave him
nothing to do, and the patronage of the Royal
Bilberry Forest. Bloom is a very popular
man with every one except those who are so
unfortunate as to put the slightest confidence
in the promises which he spends his life in
making. He is a remarkably elegant white-
teethed, fresh-complexioned, well-dressed
fellow, with a hearty, cordial, shake with
both-hands-style of address that is irresistible at
a first interview. Bloom's object in life is to
be amused at the least possible expense. So,
of course, he is always on the look-out for
good companions. When we arrived, he was
very hot upon two subjects, a steeple-chase
at Rome, which he had helped to get up, and
had entered a horse for, and some letters on
the Irrigation of Piedmont; which, in his
usual style he had promised to write up for
Lord Bumper, president for the year of the
Royal Agricultural Society. He trusted to
the chapter of accidents, and his own oily
tongue, for finding a gentleman jockey for
his horse Blatherumskate, an admirable
horse, except that he had killed two
grooms, and had lamed a jockey: and a man
able to get up something on Irrigation—his
own literary abilities being confined to writing
and spelling vapid notes in very crooked
English.

On me he pounced at once with such a
host of compliments, that no man of my age
and vanity could resist, to train and ride
his demon horse. He sent Flashington's
other friend and ex-tutor at Brazenose,
Robert Harden, who had come out to recruit
his health after the overwork of carrying off
his fellowship, to investigate the
water-meadows in Piedmont.

What he said to Harden I don't know,—it
was a secret,—but poor H. went off in great
glee, under the idea that he had secured a
powerful patron. I only know that in the
following year a pamphlet appeared, addressed
to Lord Bumper, by his affectionate friend
Bloom, on Italian irrigation. It was neatly
written, and full of appropriate classical