his hat to her, nor to Sir Tomahawk; and,
instead of making the very common mistake
amongst the peasantry, of addressing his
master by the wrong but pleasant title of
My lord, he only called him plain Sir, and
sometimes left out even this slight mark of
veneration. Bill Manacles was considered
by Sir Tomahawk and his lady to be a
dangerous member of society; and he was not
only discharged from their service, but
convicted by his master (in his magisterial
capacity) of carting some hay for a new
employer on a Sunday, and safely lodged in
gaol for three calendar months.

Bill Manacles was set at liberty at the end
of that term, with a reputation hopelessly
damaged. Meeting Sir Tomahawk and his
lady driving in their open carriage one day,
without a servant, upon one of the country
roads, Bill Manacles made towards them, to
remonstrate upon his treatment, and to know
what kind of a character they were going to
give him, if he was offered any employment in
and about Fogmoor. Bill looked ragged and
dirty, and perhaps fierce; for hunger will
give that appearance to the mildest
countenance; but he meant no ill-play. The
great Sir Tomahawk, however, was thrown
into a state of singular alarm; and, in his
nervousness he promised something—no
matter what—and galloped off towards the
friendly shelter of the town. That evening
Bill Manacles was arrested on a charge of
attempting highway robbery. He had no
character and no witnesses; while his
accusers were the great Sir Tomahawk and
his lady. The natural result was that Bill
Manacles was sent to take his trial at the
next assizes. Being in the same position
there as he was at Fogmoor, he was sentenced
to four years' penal servitude in the great
prison at Portland. This prison being out of
the reach of Sir Tomahawk's influence, Bill
Manacles was pretty well treated; and, as
he conducted himself peaceably, he was,
after a period of eighteen months' imprisonment
(without any hypocritical dealing with
the chaplain), presented with one of the
modern diplomas, called a ticket-of-leave;
which confers distinction upon a prisoner,
and saves the country, for many years, the
expense of his board and lodging. His prison
had been a home to him; but he was
now sent into the world to seek his fortune.

Bill Manacles went to the town where he
was best known, under the impression that
his ticket-of-leave would be a passport to
some kind of rough work, that would enable
him to keep himself out of the workhouse.
If not, he would, at any rate, be in his parish
when the pangs of hunger came on—as come
on they would—and ignorant as Bill Manacles
was, he knew enough of the parochial system
to be alive to the necessity of conforming to
this strict and unalterable rule of the poor-law administrators.

Bill Manacles did not meet with a triumphant
nor a hospitable reception at Fogmoor.
Fogmoor begged to turn its back upon its
prodigal son. Work there certainly was;
but not for a man with a ticket-of-leave—
although a ticket-of-leave might be a trustworthy
guarantee for its possessor's honesty
and sobriety. Bill Manacles found the doors
closed against him; found nothing but
shaking heads from the upper windows of
the more pretentious dwelling-houses of
the incorruptible borough burgesses; saw
children taken out of his way by anxious
mothers; was rebuked for idleness by stout
shopkeepers, who were basking under
sunblinds, and living upon credit.

One morning, Bill Manacles, feeling very
hungry, after a night passed in a barn, rose
with a determination to apply to the
workhouse for a breakfast. Going in the direction
of that building, he was seen, for the first
time since his return to Fogmoor, by Sir
Tomahawk Sternhold, who had not the
courage to address him. Sir Tomahawk
pondered by what his late disrespectful servant
could be again consigned to gaol, and went
home, across the fields, to breakfast. Bill
Manacles proceeded a little further
undisturbed, when he came upon Mr. Snarlington.

"Bill Manacles," said the factious member
for Fogmoor, "you're going to the Union
again, are you?"

"Wull! I can't get wurk," returned Bill,
in the attitude of a badger.

"Would you like to go into the House of
Commons?" asked Mr. Snarlington.

"Noa!" said Bill, savagely; "I've on'y
just cum owt o' gaol."

"It's not a prison," replied Mr. Snarlington,
sarcastically; "there's no tread-mill—
nothing but orators."

"Wull, measter," returned Bill, slightly
pacified, "I wunt wurk, and I wunt summat
to ate."

"Come with me, then," said Mr. Snarlington;
and he led the way along the lane to
his own house.

Bill had a substantial breakfast, which
made him feel comfortable; he had a good
wash, which made him feel decent; and he
had a cast-off coat of Mr. Snarlington's given
him, which made him feel respectable.

Mr. Snarlington explained his views to
Bill Manacles; and Bill, although he did not
half comprehend the scheme that was briefly
laid before him, being perfectly satisfied with
his quarters, his treatment, and his patron,
pledged his word and his ticket-of-leave to
stand by anything that was required of him.

The next day, Mr. Snarlington formally
resigned his political trust into the hands of
his free and independent constituents. Sir
Tomahawk was in such raptures, that he
forgot all about Bill Manacles, was positively
amiable to his inferiors—that is, all the town
of Fogmoor—and immediately put his friend,
Mr. Kosmus, again in nomination. The same
evening, towards dusk, Messrs. Alabaster