One of the young gentlemen had a light cane,
and was scourging the victim soundly. The
others seemed to he kicking him where they
could. Only some women stood with their
babies at the doors, and one called out for help
feebly.

Mr. Tillotson paused a moment. He saw
that this was more than a street scuffle, and,
without pausing a moment, he walked up quietly
to them, was flung aside by the momentum of
the battle, but in a second had dragged away
the single victim from his persecutors. There
was nothing of the splendid rescuer in what he
did; he had the advantage which the fresh
unengaged combatant who has seen and measured
the crisis from a distance, always has.

According to the usual formula, they stood
panting a moment, then turned on him.

Mr. Tillotson said, quietly, "Three on one!
Surely you are Englishmen, and can give
Englishmen fair play?"

"He deserves it, and more!" said one of the
combatants, a little excitedly. "A wretched
spy of a grocer! He's not had half enough!"

"I'll have the law of you all," said the victim,
a little round man, adjusting his torn coat. "I
know your names: you, Filby, and you, Ross.
Mind, when I get you before the jury, see if I
don't——"

Suddenly one of the most inflamed of the three
burst out:

"And are you going to let this bagman inter-
fere with you? Confound you, you impertinent
counter-jumper, what do you mean by meddling
with gentlemen? I'll give you a lesson, if they
won't."

He sprang round actively to the other side
of Mr. Tillotson with a light cane raised. In
an instant the light cane was twisted out of his
hand, and was broken in two by a smart blow,
which Mr. Tillotson meant for his shoulder, but
which fell upon his cheek.

"There, there," said his friends, "that's
enough. Let the grocer go, and have done with
him. Come home to barracks."

The last combatant had his hand up to his
cheek to hide something, and seemed quite
routed. Mr. Tillotson saw something like blood
through his fingers.

"You are not much hurt," he said. "I did not
mean——"

"Curse you, you did though," said the other.
"You aimed at my face, like a shabby—Don't
hold me, I tell you! Where is he?"

"Come away, do, now. That grocer has gone
for a watchman. Come." And the friends, in
spite of all his struggling, took him each by an
arm and hurried him off.

Mr. Tillotson looked after them a moment.
"This is just life with me," he thought, bitterly,
"life all over. I look for peace, and never can
find it. Even in a wretched place like this, at
the back of God speed, in a wretched street,
I am dragged into a mean scuffle of this sort.
A low street row, above all! That old vile enemy
will come up, will haunt me. Though they talk
of crushing out our wicked tempers—Heaven
help me!—talk of subjugating the will, taming
our earthly passions, being dead to the world!
What a comic instance am I of this training for
years." And ho almost laughed within
himself.

He heard a cheerful step behind him, and saw
Mr. Tilney coming up in the moonlight, with
stick swinging round like a catherine-wheel.

"God bless me," he said, "what an eye for
geography you have! Now, that's just like Tom
Ventnor, who was always hanging about the
palace wanting a 'stole,' or a gentleman-at-arms,
or, in fact, anything they would give him. Tom
Ventnor all the world over. Put Tom down in
Paris or Dresden, Stafford or Gloucester, or
Berlin, or New York, or Vienna, or—or—Colney
Hatch," added Mr. Tilney, embarrassed by
having got to the end of all the capitals he
recollected, "and he could walk about anywhere,
anywhere."

They walked on through the town. The grocers'
shops were still in splendour. They passed an
open market-place, where there was a statue
in a frock-coat. "One of England's gentlemen,"
said Mr. Tilney, stopping to wave his stick at
him as if he was making an incantation, "who
lived as he died. That man, to my knowledge,
never did a dirty action. It was one of the most
pleasing ceremonies I ever saw in the whole
course of my life when Lord Monboddo laid the
first stone. Ridley, the dean, behaved like a
gentleman for once in his life, and prayed over
the bronze in good style. Chinnery, my cousin,
came down here for it—all the way from
Chinnery."

Then they got under a gateway, and entered
on a soft quiet common, fringed about on one
side with ancient detached houses of brick and
stone, and of different heights, while on the other
rose the cathedral, tall, firm, solid, like a rock
out of the sea. The grass was between.

"There it is," said Mr. Tilney, flourishing with
his stick. "I have forgotten all my poetry and
Georgics, though I was brought up at Rugby,
with Stamer and Hodgson and the rest. Ah! it
sticks to me yet, sir, to see that. It is a fine
thing, and a noble thing, and it speaks to me.
Who is the fellow that says that a nigger—a
common nigger that you see with wool like a bit
of ticking stuck on his head—is th' Almighty's
image cut out of a lump o' marble? Grand,
that. Well, that building, sir, seems to me th'
Almighty's image cut out of pure Portland or
Scotch stone—I'm not sure which. I should be
ashamed if my whole heart had got so scared and
knocked about if it hadn't a comer left for a
grand thought like that!"

Mr. Tillotson actually heard his voice quaver
and tremble a little. Could he have seen Mr.
Tilney's face, he would have noticed that his
eyes were really moistened. Indeed, after brown
sherry, his friends always noticed this tendency
to topics of sensibility.

They were now back at the hotel. "Well, here
we are" said Mr. Tilney. "Wait. I'll go in and