Ten days after the evening interview at Sharpman's office, Ralph received a message from the lawyer instructing him to be at the railroad station on the following morning, prepared to go to Wilkesbarre.

So Bachelor Billy went alone that day to the breaker, and Ralph stayed behind to make ready for his journey.

He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed them carefully, put a little money in his pocket, and, long before the appointed hour, he was at the station, waiting for Sharpman.

The lawyer did not come until it was nearly time for the train to start. He greeted Ralph very pleasantly, and they took a seat together in the car. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and the nature-loving boy enjoyed greatly the changing views from the car window, as the train bore them swiftly on through the picturesque valley of the Lackawanna. After reaching, at Pittston, the junction with the Susquehanna River, the scenery was grander; and, as they passed down through the far-famed Wyoming Valley, Ralph thought he had never before seen anything quite so beautiful. On the whole it was a delightful journey. Sharpman was in excellent spirits and made himself very agreeable indeed. He seemed to enjoy answering the boy's bright questions, and listening to his shrewd remarks and frank opinions. It was not until they were nearing Wilkesbarre that the special object of their trip was mentioned; then the lawyer informed Ralph that they would go directly to court, and instructed him that if the judge should ask him whom he wished for his guardian, Ralph was to reply that he desired the appointment of Simon Craft. That matter being thoroughly understood, they went on to talk of what they should do in the future.

"It will be necessary, eventually," said Sharpman, "to bring a formal suit against Mrs. Burnham, as administrator, to recover your interest in the estate; but, judging from what she has intimated to me, I don't anticipate any serious opposition on her part."

"I'm sorry, though," responded Ralph, "that they's got to be a law-suit. Couldn't we make it so plain to her, some way, 'at I'm her son that we needn't have any suit?"

"I am afraid not. Even though she, herself, were convinced, she would have no right to distribute a portion of the estate to you against the objection of her daughter's guardian. There is no way but to get a judgment of the court in the matter."

"Well, why couldn't she jes' take my part, an' give it to her daughter's guarden, an' then take me home to live with her without any propaty? Wouldn't that do? I'd a good deal ruther do that than have a law-suit. A man hates to go to law with his own mother, you know."

Sharpman smiled and replied: "That would be a very generous offer, indeed; but I am afraid even that would not do. You would have no right to make such an agreement before you are twenty-one years old. Oh, no! we must have a law-suit, there is no other way; but it will be a mere matter of form; you need have no fear concerning it."

The train reached Wilkesbarre, and Ralph and the lawyer went directly from the station to the court-house. There were very few people in the court-room when they entered it, and there seemed to be no especial business before the court. Sharpman went down into the bar and shook hands with several of the attorneys there. The judge was writing busily at his desk. After a few moments he laid his pen aside and read a long opinion he had prepared in the matter of some decedent's estate. Ralph could not understand it at all, and his mind soon wandered to other subjects. After the reading was finished and one or two of the lawyers had made short speeches, there was a pause. Then Sharpman arose, and, drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket, he read to the court from one of them as follows:—

"TO THE HONORABLE, THE JUDGE OF THE ORPHANS' COURT OF LUZERNE COUNTY:—

"The petition of Ralph Burnham, by his next friend Simon Craft,
respectfully represents that the petitioner is a minor child of
Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton in said county,
deceased, under the age of fourteen years; that he is resident
within the said county and has no guardian to take care of his
estate. He therefore prays the court to appoint a guardian for
that purpose.

"RALPH BURNHAM.
By his next friend, SIMON CRAFT.
Dated, Sept. 26, 1867."

"Your Honor will notice that the petition is duly sworn to," said Sharpman, handing the paper to the clerk, who, in turn, handed it to the judge. There was a minute of silence. The lawyers were all staring at Sharpman in astonishment.

Then, the judge spoke.

"Mr. Sharpman, I was not aware that Robert Burnham left more than one child living; a girl, for whom we have already made appointment of a guardian."

"I was not aware of that fact either," rejoined Sharpman, "until very recently; but it is a fact, nevertheless; and we are here now, asking that a way be prepared by which this heir may come into his rightful portion of his father's estate."

"This is a peculiar case," responded the judge; "and I think we should have some other basis than this on which to act; some affidavit of facts."

"I came prepared to meet that objection," said Sharpman. "I will now read, if the court please, a statement of the facts in the case." He unfolded another paper and read a long and detailed account of the wreck, of Ralph's rescue by Simon Craft, of the old man's care and keeping of the boy, of the finding of Ralph's parents, the lad's desertion, the recent discovery of his whereabouts, of Craft's toil and sacrifice in the matter, and of Ralph's desire to be restored to his family. This was signed and sworn to by Simon Craft.

The judge sat for a moment in silence, as if studying the effect of this affidavit.

"Has the mother been notified," he said finally, "that this child is living, and, if so, why does not she appear here to make this application?"

"I will answer that question, your Honor, by reading the following affidavit," replied Sharpman.

"LUZERNE COUNTY, SS.:

"John H. Sharpman, attorney at law of said county, being duly sworn according to law, deposes, and says: that, on the fifteenth day of September, A.D. 1867, he called upon Mrs. Margaret Burnham, the widow of Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton, deceased, and administrator of the said Robert Burnham's estate, and informed her of the facts set forth in the foregoing affidavit of Simon Craft. She acknowledged her acquaintance with the boy Ralph, herein mentioned, but refused to acknowledge him as the son of Robert Burnham, or to grant him any legal interest in the estate of the said Robert Burnham. A notice, a copy of which is hereto attached, has been served on the said Margaret Burnham, warning her that application will be made to the Orphans' Court, on this day, at this hour, for the appointment of a guardian for the boy Ralph.

"JOHN H. SHARPMAN.
Sworn and subscribed before me,
Sept. 26, 1867.
ISRAEL DURHAM,
Justice of the Peace."

"Does any one appear for Mrs. Burnham in this matter?" inquired the judge, addressing the assembly of lawyers.

An elderly man, short and thick-set, with gray hair and moustache, arose, and said:—

"I have been informed, as Mrs. Burnham's attorney, that such a proceeding as this was in contemplation. I appreciate your Honor's careful scrutiny of the matter before making an appointment; but, so long as we do not recognize the boy as Robert Burnham's son, it would hardly be justifiable for us to interfere in the simple appointment of a guardian for him. Inasmuch, however, as the avowed purpose is to make an attack on the Burnham estates, we shall insist that the guardian enter into a bond of sufficient amount and value to cover any damages which may accrue from any action he may see fit to take."

"Have you prepared a bond, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge.

"We have," replied Sharpman, producing still another paper.

"Mr. Goodlaw," continued the judge, addressing Mrs. Burnham's attorney, "will you look at the bond and see if it is satisfactory to you?"

Mr. Goodlaw took the bond, examined it, and returned it to the clerk.
"I have no objection to make to it," he said.

"Then we will approve the bond, Mr. Sharpman, and make the appointment. You have named Simon Craft as guardian. We are wholly unacquainted with him. Have you consulted with the boy in this matter? What does he say?"

"I have brought the boy into court, so that, notwithstanding his legal inability to make choice for himself, your Honor might be satisfied as to his wish in the matter. This is the boy," as Ralph, obedient to the lawyer's summons, came into the bar and stood beside him. The judge scrutinized the lad closely, and the lawyers leaned forward in their chairs, or came nearer for the purpose of better observation. Ralph felt somewhat embarrassed, standing there to be stared at so, but the voice of the judge soon reassured him.

"Ralph," he said, "is this application for a guardian made according to your desire?"

"Yes, sir," replied the boy; "Mr. Sharpman says I ought to have one."

"And whom do you choose for your guardian?"

"Gran'pa Simon, sir."

Sharpman looked annoyed, and whispered something to Ralph.

"I mean Simon Craft," said the boy, correcting himself.

"Is Simon Craft your grandfather?" asked the judge, sternly.

"Oh, no! I guess not. He made me call 'im that. I never had no grandfather; but Mr. Sharpman says that Robert Burnham was my father—and—and he's dead."

The judge looked down at the lad somewhat uncertainly, then he said: "Well, Ralph, that will do; we'll make the appointment, but," turning to Sharpman, "we shall watch this matter closely. We shall see that justice is done to the child in any event."

"It is my earnest wish," responded Sharpman, "that your Honor shall do so. My only object in the matter is to see that this boy, whom I firmly believe to be Robert Burnham's son, is restored to his family and estates, and that this old man, who has saved the lad's life, and has spent and endured much for him through many years, is adequately rewarded in his old age."

The judge endorsed the papers and handed them to the clerk, and
Sharpman walked up the aisle with Ralph to the door of the court-room.

"I have business," said the lawyer, "which will keep me here the rest of the day. Can you find your way back to the station?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Here is something to pay your fare with;" offering a piece of money to the boy.

"I've got enough," said Ralph, declining to accept it, "plenty; I'll get home all right."

"Well, the train will leave at noon. I'll send for you when we want you again. Good-by!"

"Good-by!"

Ralph went down the steps, out at the door, and across the court-house yard. He was not sure that he struck into the right street to go to the station, there were so many streets radiating from the court-house square. But it did not much matter; there was plenty of time before the train would start, and he thought he would like to walk about a little, and see something of the city. He felt like walking off, too, a feeling of dissatisfaction concerning what had just been done in court. It was too much in the nature of an adverse proceeding to seem quite right to him; he was fearful that, somehow, it would estrange his mother from him. He thought there ought to be some simpler way to restore him to his family, some way in which he and his mother could act jointly and in undoubted harmony. He hoped it would all come out right, though. He did not know what better he could do, at any rate, than to follow the advice of his lawyer; and, besides that, he had promised to obey him implicitly in this matter, and he must keep his promise. He had no thought that he was being used merely as an instrument in the hands of designing men.

It was with this vague feeling of unrest at his heart, and with his mind occupied by uneasy thought, that he walked leisurely down the street of this strange city, paying little attention to his course, or to what was going on around him.

Finally he thought it was time he should have reached the station, or at least made some attempt to find it; so he quickened his steps a little, and looked out ahead of him.

There was a man standing on the next corner, and Ralph stopped and asked him if he was on the right road to get to the station. The man laughed good-naturedly, and told him he was on the right road to get away from it, and advised him to retrace his steps for four blocks, then to go two blocks to the left, and there he would find a street running diagonally across the town, which, if he would follow it, would take him very near to the station. He would have to hurry, too, the man said, if he wanted to catch the noon train.

So Ralph turned back, counting the blocks as he went, turning at the right place, and coming, at last, to the street described. But, instead of one street running diagonally from this point there were two or three; and Ralph did not know which one to follow. He asked a boy, who was passing by with a basket on his shoulder, where the station was, and the boy, bending his neck and looking at him, said,—

"I guess this's the way you want to go, sonny," pointing down one of the streets, as he spoke, and then whistling a merry tune as he trudged on with his burden.

Ralph turned into the street designated, and hurried down it, block after block; but he did not reach the station, nor did he see any place that looked like it. He seemed to be in the suburbs, too, in a locality the surroundings of which impressed him unpleasantly. The buildings were small and dilapidated, there was a good deal of rubbish on the sidewalks and in the streets, a few ragged children were playing in the gutter near by, shivering with cold as they ran about in bare, dirty feet, and a drunken man, leaning against a post on the opposite corner, was talking affectionately to some imaginary person in the vicinity. Ralph thought that this, certainly, was not where he ought to be. He walked more slowly, trying to find some one who would give him reliable directions.

At the corner of the block there was a house that looked somewhat better than its neighbors. It had a show-window projecting a few inches into the street, and in the window was a display of wine-bottles, and a very dirty placard announcing that oysters would be served to customers, in every style. On the ground-glass comprising the upper part of the door, the words "Sample Room" were elaborately lettered. Ralph heard some one talking inside, and, after a moment of hesitation, concluded to go in there and make his inquiry, as the need of finding his way had come to be very pressing. Coming in, as he did, from the street, the room was quite dark to his eyes, and he could not well make out, at first, who were in it. But he soon discovered a man standing, in his shirt-sleeves, behind a bar, and he went up to him and said:—

"Will you please tell me, sir, which is the nearest way to the railroad station?"

"Which station d'ye want to go to, bub?" inquired the man, leaning over the bar to look at him.

"The one you take the train for Scranton from."

"Which train for Scranton d'ye want to take?"

"The one't leaves at noon."

"Why that train goes in just five minutes. You couldn't catch that train now, my little cupid, if you should spread your wings and fly to the station."

It was not the bar-tender who spoke this time; it was a young man who had left his chair by the stove and had come up closer to get a better look at the boy. He was just slipping a silver watch back into his vest pocket. It was a black silk vest, dotted with little red figures. Below the vest, encasing the wearer's legs very tightly, were a pair of much soiled corduroy pantaloons that had once been of a lavender shade. Over the vest was a short, dark, double-breasted sack coat, now unbuttoned. A large gaudy, flowing cravat, and an ill-used silk hat, set well back on the wearer's head, completed this somewhat noticeable costume.

There was a good-natured looking face under the hat though, smooth and freckled; but the eyes were red and heavy, and the tip of the straight nose was of quite a vermilion hue.

"No, my dear boy," he continued,—

"You can't catch it,
And I can't fetch it,

"so you may as well take it easy and wait for the next one."

"When does the next one go?" inquired Ralph, looking up at the strange young man, but with his eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness of the room.

"Four o'clock, my cherub; not till four o'clock. Going up on that train myself, and I'll see you right through:—

"Oh, sonny! if you'll wait and go with me,
How happy and delighted I should be."

Then the young man did a strange thing; he took hold of Ralph's arm, led him to the window, turned his face to the light and scrutinized it closely.

"Well, I'll be kicked to death by grasshoppers!" he exclaimed, at last, "have I found—do I behold—is this indeed the long lost Ralph?"

The boy had broken away from him, and stood with frightened, wondering face, gazing steadily on the young man, as if trying to call something to memory. Then a light of recognition came into his eyes, and a smile to his lips.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "it's Joe; it's Rhymin' Joe!"

"A happy meeting," said the young man, "and a mutual remembrance.
Heart speaks to heart.

"The hand of friendship, ever true,
Brings you to me and me to you.

"Mr. Bummerton," turning to the bar-tender, "allow me to introduce my esteemed young friend, Mr. Ralph Craft, the worthy grandson of an old acquaintance."

Mr. Bummerton reached a burly hand over the bar and shook hands cordially with Ralph. "Glad to meet your young friend," he said.

"Well," continued Rhyming Joe, "isn't it strange how and under what circumstances old cronies sometimes meet? I cast my eyes on you and I said to myself, 'that young man has a familiar look to me.' I listened to your voice and I remarked to my inner consciousness, 'that voice lingers somewhere in the depths of of memory.' I turn your face to the light, and lo and behold! I reveal to my astonished gaze the features of my old friend, Ralph.

"No tongue can tell my great delight,
At seeing you again to-night.

"Of course it isn't night yet, you know, but the pressing exigencies of rhyme often demand the elimination, as it were, of a small portion of time."

Ralph was glancing uneasily about the room. "Gran'pa Simon ain't anywheres around is he?" he asked, letting his eyes rest, with careful scrutiny, on a drunken man asleep in a chair in a dark corner.

"No, my boy," answered Joe, "he isn't. I haven't seen the dear old saint, for, lo, these many moons. Ah!—let me see! did you not leave the patriarch's sweet home circle, somewhat prematurely, eh?

"Gave the good old man the slip
Ere the cup could touch the lip?"

"Yes," said Ralph, "I did. I run away. He didn't use me right."

"No, he didn't, that's so. Come, be seated—tell me about it. Oh! you needn't fear. I'll not give it away. Your affectionate grandpa and I are not on speaking terms. The unpleasant bitterness of our estrangement is sapping the juices of my young life and dragging the roses from my cheeks.

"How sad when lack of faith doth part
The tender from the toughened heart!"

Rhyming Joe had drawn two chairs near to the stove, and had playfully forced Ralph into one of them, while he, himself, took the other.

The bar-tender came out from behind his bar and approached the couple.

"Oh, by the way," he asked, "did ye have a ticket for your passage up, or was ye goin' to pay your fare?"

"Oh, no!" said Ralph, "I ain't got any ticket. Mr. Sharpman paid my fare down, but I was goin' to pay it back, myself."

The man stood, for a few minutes, listening to the reminiscences of their Philadelphia life which Ralph and Joe were recalling, then he interrupted again:—

"How'd ye like to have some dinner, me boy? Ain't ye gittin' a little hungry? it's after noon now."

"Well, I am a bit hungry," responded Ralph, "that's a fact. Do you get dinners here for people?"

"Oh, certainly! jest as good a dinner as ye'll git anywhere. Don't charge ye for nothing more'n ye actially eat, neither. Have some?"

"Well, yes," said the boy, "I guess so; I won't have no better chance to get any, 'fore I get home."

"I think," said Rhyming Joe, as the man shuffled away, "that my young friend would like a dish of soup, then a bit of tenderloin, and a little chicken-salad, and some quail on toast, with the vegetables and accessories. For dessert we will have some ices, a few chocolate eclairs and lady-fingers, and a cup of black coffee. You had better bring the iced champagne with the dinner, and don't forget the finger-bowls."

Before the last words were out of the speaker's mouth, the bar-tender had disappeared through a door behind the bar, with a wicked smile on his face.

It seemed a long time, to Ralph, before the man came back, but when he did come, he carried in his hands a tray, on which were bowls of oyster soup, very thin, a few crackers, and two little plates of dirty butter. He placed them on a round table at one side of the room, and Ralph and Joe drew up their chairs and began to eat.

The man came again, a few minutes afterward, with bread, and pork, and cabbage, and coffee.

On the whole, it was much better than no dinner, and Ralph's hunger prevented him from being very critical. The warm food seemed to have the effect of making him more communicative, and he was allowing his companion to draw out from him, little by little, as they sat and ate, the whole story of his life since leaving Simon Craft. Rhyming Joe appeared to be deeply interested and very sympathetic.

"Well, you did have a hard time, my dear lad," he said, "out on the road with that circus company. I travelled with a circus company once, myself, in the capacity of special entertainer of country people and inspector of watches and jewelry, but it brings tears to my eyes now, to remember how ungratefully they treated me."

"That's jes' like they did me," said Ralph; "w'en I got sick up there at Scranton, they hadn't no furder use for me, an' they went away an' lef' me there alone."

"That was a sad plight to be in. How did you meet that emergency?"

"I didn't meet it at all. Bachelor Billy, he met it; he foun' me, an' cured me, an' I live with him now, an' work in the breaker."

"Ah, indeed! at work. Laborarium est honorarium, as the Latin poet has it. How often have I wished that it were possible for me to earn my bread by the sweat of my brow; but, alas!—"

"Ain't it?" interrupted Ralph.

"No, my dear boy, it isn't. I have been afflicted, from my youth up, with a chronic disease which the best physicians of both continents have pronounced imminently dangerous to both life and happiness, if physical exercise be immoderately indulged in."

"What is it?" asked Ralph, innocently.

"Indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. But how about Grandpa Simon? Has he discovered your retreat?

"Has the bald, bad eagle of the plain
Swooped down upon his prey again?"

"Well, not hardly that," responded Ralph, "but he's foun' me."

"Indeed! And what is his state of mind concerning you now?"

"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly.

"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me."

"No, he ain't no relation to me."

"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?"

"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son."

Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter much anyway,—every one would soon know it.

"Robert Burnham's son? You don't mean the rich coal proprietor who died at his mine in Scranton last spring?"

"Yes, he's the one I mean. I'm his son."

Rhyming Joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and looked into his eyes. "My dear young friend," he said, "I fear you have fallen into evil ways since you passed out of the range of my beneficent influence. But you should not try to impose so glittering a romance on the verdant credulity of an old acquaintance at the first meeting in many weary years."

"To your faithful friend and true,
Tell the truth, whate'er you do."

"Tis true!" asserted Ralph, stoutly. "Gran'pa Simon says so, an' Lawyer Sharpman says so, an' Mrs. Burnham, she—she—she almost believes it, too, I guess."

The bar-tender approached again and asked what else they would have.

"A little something to wash the dinner down with, Bummerton," said
Joe, turning again quickly to Ralph.

"Then why don't you live in the Burnham mansion?" he asked, "and leave rude toil for others?"

"'Cause my mother ain't able to reco'nize me yet; she can't do it till the suit's ended. They's other heirs, you know."

"Suit! what suit? are you going to have a suit over it?"

The bar-tender brought a bottle, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a bowl of sugar.

"Yes," replied the boy, sadly, "I s'pose we've got to. Gran'pa Simon, he's been 'pointed my garden. He ain't so bad a man as he used to be, Gran'pa Simon ain't. He's been sick a good deal lately, I guess."

Rhyming Joe paid no attention to these last remarks, but he seemed to be deeply interested in the law-suit mentioned. He took time to pour some of the contents of the bottle into each glass, then he filled the glasses up with water and stirred a goodly quantity of sugar into the one he pushed toward Ralph.

"What is it?" asked the boy. "Uncle Billy an' me's temperance; we don't drink nothin' much but water."

"Oh!" responded Joe, "this is purely a temperance drink; it's made up from wheat, just the same as you get in your white bread. They have to drink it here in Wilkesbarre, the water is so bad.

"When man and water both are ill,
A little wheat-juice fills the bill.

"Try some, you'll find it good."

Ralph was thirsty, and he sipped a little of the mixture; but he did not like it very well, and he drank no more of it.

"Who is going to carry on the suit for you?" continued Rhyming Joe; "have you got a lawyer?"

"Oh, yes! Lawyer Sharpman; he's very smart, too. He's goin' to manage it."

"And when will the trial come off? Perhaps I may be of some assistance to you and to my quondam friend, your sometime grandfather. I would drop all bitterness of feeling, all vain enmity, if I might do the revered patriarch a favor.

"My motto has been, and my motto is yet,
That it frequently pays to forgive and forget."

"Oh! I don't know," Ralph replied; "it'll be two or three months yet, anyway, I guess."

Rhyming Joe gazed thoughtfully at the stove.

Bummerton came and began to take away the dishes.

"What's your bill, landlord?" inquired Joe.

"D'ye want the bill for both of ye?"

"Certainly. My young friend here, if I remember rightly, invited me to dine with him. I am his guest, and he foots the bills. See?"

Ralph did not remember to have asked Rhyming Joe to dine with him, but he did not want to appear mean, so he said:—

"Yes, I'll foot the bill; how much is it?" taking out his little leather wallet as he spoke.

"It'll be three dollars," said Bummerton; "a dollar an' a quarter apiece for the dinner, an' a quarter apiece for the drinks."

Ralph looked up in amazement. He had never before heard of a dinner being worth so much money.

"Oh! it's all right," said Joe. "This is rather a high-priced hotel; but they get up everything in first-class style, do you see?

"If in style you drink and eat,
Lofty bills you'll have to meet."

"But I ain't got that much money," said Ralph, unstrapping his wallet.

"How much have ye got?" inquired the bar-tender.

"I've only got a dollar'n eighty-two cents."

"Well, you see, sonny," said Bummerton, "that ain't more'n half enough. Ye shouldn't order such a fancy dinner 'nless ye've got money to pay for it."

"But I didn't know it was goin' to cost so much," protested Ralph.
"Uncle Billy an' me got jest as good a dinner last Fourth o' July at
a place in Scranton, an' it didn't cost both of us but seventy cents.
Besides, I don't b'lieve—"

"Look here, Bummerton!" said Joe, rising and leading the bar-tender aside. They whispered together for a few moments and then returned.

"It's all right," said Joe. "You're to pay him what money you have, and he's to charge the remainder on my bill. I'll stand the rest of it for you.

"I'll be that precious 'friend in need,'
Who proves himself a friend indeed."

"Then," said Ralph, "I won't have any money left to pay my fare back home."

"Oh, I'll see to that!" exclaimed Joe. "I invited you to ride up with me, didn't I? and of course I'll pay your fare; das verstekt sich; that goes without saying.

"I'll never desert you, oh, never! he spake,
We'll stand by each other, asleep or awake."

It was not without much misgiving that Ralph gave the dollar and eighty-two cents to the bar-tender, and returned the empty wallet to his pocket. But Rhyming Joe soon engaged him again in conversation. The young man seemed to be deeply interested in the movement to restore the boy to his family rights and possessions. He asked many questions about it, about Craft, about Sharpman, about Ralph's knowledge of himself; the whole ground, indeed, was gone over carefully from the beginning to the present; even the probabilities of the future were fully discussed.

In the meantime, the liquor in the bottle was steadily diminishing in quantity, as a result of Rhyming Joe's constant attention to it, and Ralph thought he began to detect evidences of intoxication in the speech and conduct of his friend. His nose appeared to be getting redder, his eyelids were drooping, he was sinking lower into his chair, his utterance was growing thick, and his voice had a sleepy tone.

Ralph, too, felt sleepy. The excitement and exercise of the morning, the hearty dinner, the warm, close room, and the fumes of alcohol in the atmosphere, were all having their effect on his senses. He saw, dimly, that Joe's chin was resting on his breast and that his eyes were closed; he heard him mutter in a voice that seemed to come from some distant room:—

"Of all 'e bowls I s-s-smell or see,
The wassail bowl's 'e bowl f-f-for me,"

and the next moment both man and boy were fast asleep.