The Vale of the Frolic in the far west of Northumberland had always been a favourite retreat of mine. As I trudged the London pavements in the dog-days before the Law Courts rose, my heart panted for the green hills and the sweet silences of remotest Frolicdale.

The chiefest charm of the vale perhaps for me lay in the fact that it was a track untrodden by the tourist, resembling the maid of the waters of Dove in this—that it was one which, as yet, there were ‘few to know, and very few to love.’

It was a pastoral, sheep-raising countryside, inhabited by shepherds almost entirely, who were at the same time farmers also, for their tenure was something after the mÉtayer order.

There was nothing to mar the quaint and antique flavour of existence. The post, like our lifeboat institution, was here supported by voluntary contributions. If anyone were ‘gannin’ up the wattor,’ well and good; he would take the letters with him. If not, then they were left at the schoolmaster’s till called for. Newspapers, again, with the exception of a weekly Courant or a Scots Mail, were, like the woodcock, but ‘occasional visitors’ in that region; and when it is added that the house I usually stayed at was situated eighteen miles from a terminus of a slow branch line of the North British Railway Company, it will be evident that the ordinary tourist had a very poor chance of putting in an appearance in that favoured region.

I was recalling all these little details with infinite gusto as I sat down at my desk to write to my friend the Presbyterian minister and schoolmaster of Fair-Green Haugh, suggesting a visit from myself a week ahead.

The answer came just in time for me to pack up and start within the week.

‘I am sorry to say,’ wrote my friend in conclusion, ‘that my accommodation is somewhat limited this summer, as I have had to give up my small sanctum to a protÉgÉ of mine, who, though he has just been discharged from gaol, will yet, I feel assured, become a highly useful and respectable member of society.

‘I know your kind heart, my friend,’ he continued, ‘and feel sure you will not regret a temporary lack of comfort in so good a cause. You can always use the schoolroom, as it is holiday time, for reading, writing and smoking.’

‘Heavens!’ I murmured to myself, as I took in the monstrous situation; ‘fancy having to spend my vacation trying to improve an infernal burglar! He knows my kind heart, he says. Well, it only proves the truth of the poet’s lines:

I wonder,’ I soliloquized, ‘whether he is of the heavy, hang-dog, dropped-jaw type—the knifing variety, in brief—or the other species—the shifty-eyed, chinless, quick but evil brained sort. On the whole, I prefer the first, for if he cannot control his temper, at any rate you know where you are with him, whereas with the latter you never can tell what he may be up to.’

Anyway, it was exasperating, for here had I been congratulating myself upon the sweet security of my proposed retreat, only to discover at the last moment that I was destined to become co-warder of a criminal.

However, it was no use making myself miserable before the time, and as I was at any rate now free from the choking London atmosphere I could revel in the thought of fresh country air, liberty and leisure. I stayed the night at Heathtown (famous for the church wherein Bernard Gilpin, ‘the apostle of the north,’ stayed the hot Borderers from feud), and, drawing the heather-honeyed air deep into my lungs, felt my strength so renewed that the thoughts of shifting the ticket-of-leave gentleman if he didn’t, in North-country phrase, ‘keep a civil tongue in his heid and behave hissel’ respectable,’ positively inspired me with pleasure.

The postman in his cart was, as it chanced, going up to the little village, styled a ‘toon,’ where the last post and telegraph-office this side of Scotland is situated, and insisted upon giving me a ‘cast’ so far upon my road.

‘No, nowse is changed ava,’ he replied, in answer to my query, ‘syne ye were last here, save belikely that we are aal a year older, an’ that Farmer Newton’s missus was brought tae bed wi’ anither bairn a month ago last Saterday. Ye’ll mind she had her fourth bairn the last time ye were here, an’ Farmer Newton, he says he’ll just hae tae turn priest, an’ get the Sixstanes livin’,[22] an’ there, ye ken, the Queen sends ye a ten-pound note for every addition tae yor fam’ly; an’ though there might not be ower muckle profit in it, it wud help tae keep the pot a-boiling, says he. But I’m thinkin’ mysel’,’ continued my informant reflectively, ‘that if Farmer Newton were tae give up shootin’ an’ huntin’ sae muckle, an’ took a turn at farmin’, he’d have a less reason for complaining.’

And so we passed the time away, he regaling me with all the domestic gossip of the countryside, I interrupting him now and again to point out the historical objects of interest on either hand of us; for, like all true countrymen, though he knew every stick and stone by the wayside, he was entirely ignorant of the past history of his vale.

We were now close on the village where my driver ended his stage, and it suddenly occurred to me to inquire, as I thanked him for his kindness to myself, if he knew anything of my friend’s protÉgÉ at the Fair Green Haugh.

‘Well,’ he replied slowly, ‘I have heard as hoo he has ta’en up wi’ a convick or gaol-bord o’ that description. Wey, I canna tell. He’d muckle better hae getten’d hissel’ marrit; an’ sartinly we divvn’t want that sort o’ specie up this wattor-side. We hevn’t muckle gear belike, but we prefer tae keep wor ain. He’ll be ain o’ the lifting kind likelies, the same as thae moss-troopin’ fellers ye were crackin’ on aboot enoo whae divvn’t seem ivvor tae hae heard on the fifth commandment. Ye’ll be weel employed this holiday-time o’ yors wi’ lookin’ efter him, I’s warn’d. But yo’re a lawyer chap,’ he continued, ‘an’ dootless ye’ll find an excuse tae shift him wi’. Put on yor wig, an’ nae doot but it will tarrify him.’

I thanked the speaker for his advice somewhat ruefully, for his words exactly fitted my own presentiment.

Having bade adieu to my postman friend, and arranged for my heavier luggage to be sent forward in the next carrier’s cart that might be going ‘up the wattor,’ I set out across the hills to The Nook on Fair Green Haugh with my knapsack on my back.

Two hours’ walking brought me within view of The Nook, and as I paused at the top of the brae to drink in the well-beloved aspect of the small ‘bigging’ that sheltered in the green coign between Windy Law and Blind Burn side, I noticed the figure of a man carrying a small child in his arms.

I knew most of the inhabitants of the vale by sight, but the aspect of the individual in question was unknown to me. It was scarcely likely he could be a shepherd’s extra hand, for the washing and shearing time was over, and a tramp in the ordinary sense of the term would have been, to quote from the ornithologists, a ‘rare and occasional visitor.’ Besides, he had not the appearance of a tramp; he walked with an easy boldness, apparently playing with the child as he strolled, for as I drew nearer I could hear the child’s voice gleefully crying, ‘Again, again; do it again, funny man.’

As I drew nearer I looked at the stranger with interest, and noted that he was a well-made, active fellow, of good proportions. His face was slightly scarred, as though from small-pox, but not unpleasantly; it was as if the disease, suddenly repenting of spoiling a bright and healthful countenance, had incontinently left him for another victim.

His eyes blue, his teeth, splendidly regular, were clean and white as a hound’s. Glancing at the child, I discovered her to be Maggie, the six-year-old child of Tom Hedley, the herd at Fulhope Law, so I went straight up to her and asked for a kiss as usual. ‘No,’ said the diminutive flirt archly, holding her head backwards; ‘no kiss for zoo. I’s got a new man noo,’ and forthwith she buried her curls in his neck. ‘He’s a nice funny man,’ she continued in another moment, peeping forth from her hiding-place, ‘an’ he’s got nae mair hair on his heid than oor little puppy-dog at home.’

I glanced at her captor, and noting his cropped crown, jumped to a sure conclusion as to his identity. ‘Why, ’tis none other,’ thought I, ‘than the protÉgÉ.’ Possibly he read my thoughts; at any rate, releasing one arm, he lifted his hand to a salute, smiling, meanwhile, in the most affable way in the world. I nodded ‘Good afternoon,’ and learning that the minister was within and waiting my arrival, turned my steps to the house.

After our first greetings were over he commenced to apologize again for the limited space at my disposal, but he was certain that when once I had got to know his ‘protÉgÉ,’ I should think no more about it. ‘He is a beautiful character,’ he concluded enthusiastically, ‘one could tell that at a glance by the way in which children take to him.’

‘I met him outside just a moment ago,’ I replied, ‘and he certainly seems to have won little Maggie’s heart, but from my recollection of her half a dozen “sweeties” would explain that feat. And after all,’ I continued judicially, ‘some of the greatest ruffians that ever lived were extremely fond of children. There was Herod, of course, but he was the exception that proves the rule.’

‘Ah,’ sighed my friend, ‘that terrible London atmosphere! How it cankers the human affections! The theory of the law, I believe, is that every man should be considered innocent till he has been proved guilty; but you lawyers, reversing this in practice, hold every man guilty till he prove his innocence.’

‘How about his hair?’ I inquired rather unkindly.

‘His hair?’ my friend queried, with a puzzled expression. ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ he continued almost immediately, endeavouring to shed a soupÇon of a smile over his seriously earnest countenance. ‘But don’t notice that, please, or you may make him reckless. For now is the critical time,’ he added solemnly, with the professional manner of a physician making his diagnosis; ‘if he gets safely over this his cure may be regarded as practically assured.

‘The great thing is to believe in a man, to cultivate little by little his sense of self-respect; by “believing men to be better than they are,” one may even, as has been so well said, “make them better than they are.” In England we have always gone on a wrong principle; we worship success, worldly success, far too much, and have scant sympathy with the unfortunate. My friend outside says that he stole a leg of mutton for his starving daughter. The result is he cannot now get a situation, and his daughter has been taken from him, and is now in a home. Well, if the man be treated with contumely, he may very likely despair and give up all hope of improvement. Treat him well, on the other hand, and you may yet turn him into a useful citizen.’ ‘You put a premium on wrong-doing,’ said I, as I shook my head at his argument, smiling, however, at the impassioned face before me.

His high, narrow forehead with the ruffled upstanding hair betrayed the enthusiast; the broad, refined, and eager lips marked a perennial emotion within; his eyes, notwithstanding their wonderful clarity, had a far-away look in the depths of them; a spare form, thin wrists, and shrunken hands completed the presentation of the idealistic, mystical, Don Quixote type of human nature.

While I thus reflected, my friend continued to pour out fresh instances proving satisfactorily to any non-prejudiced mind the correctness of his theory.

‘But what are you going to do with him?’ I asked eventually, ‘for after all that is the important thing. I mean, his being here with you may be very nice for him, but it doesn’t teach him a trade, and you can’t afford to keep him, I know, for long.’ ‘First of all,’ eagerly began my friend, ‘I propose to keep him long enough to re-instate him in his self-respect; secondly, to study his temperament and character thoroughly in order to discover what line of life he is best suited for, and then to get him some appropriate situation. That is the programme, and, I think, a quite practical and satisfactory one. There is no “pauperizing” here, you see; it is simply giving a man a fair chance. And now,’ he continued briskly, ‘come out and inspect the garden.’

The protÉgÉ, it appeared, had been making himself useful therein, which my friend thought was a highly encouraging sign, ‘for,’ said he, ‘no bad man ever cared for gardening.’

The next few days I spent contentedly in absolute idleness, now strolling up the waterside, now smoking and reading peacefully in the little arbour behind the herbaceous border. I had almost forgotten the existence of my bÊte-noir; he showed, indeed, a most commendable readiness to efface himself as much as possible from observation, and when I chanced to pass him he seemed rather to avoid me than to seek my company. ‘Good-morning,’ I would say, if I happened to come out of the house before breakfast for a stroll, and find him chopping firewood, ‘lovely weather, and looks like lasting, I think.’

‘Ay,’ he would usually reply, with a hurried touch to his cap, ‘it’s canny weather,’ then muttering something about being busy, would incontinently hurry into the house. I took this as a sign of grace, and was quite favourable to the mode of intercourse thus established. But my host, I could see, was pained at my apparent lack of interest in his protÉgÉ; so the next day, finding Blythe engaged in tying up the suckers of the honeysuckle to the trellis of the arbour, I went boldly up to him, determined to try and draw him out. ‘Well, and how do you like the country?’ I inquired. ‘A pleasant change after town life, eh?’

He gave me a quick, suspicious glance in return, then muttering, ‘Ay, dootless,’ again devoted himself to his occupation.

I tried again, but, meeting with no encouragement, became, I am bound to confess, a little nettled, as though with an insubordinate witness. The happy insouciance I thought to have marked in him at our first encounter had vanished, and ‘’Tis the knifing variety, after all,’ I murmured to myself, and fell to scrutinizing him somewhat severely. There was something about him that somehow seemed familiar to me. I determined to probe, and see if he would wince.

‘Possibly you don’t care about the country?’ I suggested smoothly; ‘towns, perhaps, attract you more. York, for example, is a nice town, and, by chance, say September 30 for a little business in the vicinity, eh?’

He looked me full in the face at this, a very ugly smile curving his lips, as he replied abruptly, ‘What is it you’re wanting?’

‘I don’t know that I want anything for myself,’ said I, somewhat elated at the success of my conjecture, ‘but I should like fair play for my friend inside. Pheasants are scarce hereabouts, but possibly other things might come in useful. I needn’t specify,’ I continued airily, ‘to a gentleman of your intelligence; ’twould be superfluous.’

For reply he made a bound at me, head down, and both fists outstretched. It was as the rush of the bull for the matador’s flag, and my bound aside just saved me from his charge, though his right fist touched me on the chest and sent me staggering backward.

He turned, and came again; this time I had more space for manoeuvre, and the memory of an old fencing trick, learned in Angelo’s school of arms, swift as a flashlight, lit within my brain. I leant forward as though to meet him like a boxer, then, as he rushed upon me, turned quickly sideways, fencing fashion, and slipped half a foot backward. He missed me by a hand’s breadth; a reek of tobacco touched me hotly on the cheek; another moment and I had leapt forward on a late ‘time thrust,’ and caught my antagonist neatly just behind the ear. I had been unable to put any strength into the blow, but it proved to be enough to upset his poise. He staggered, stooped, and then fell headlong on the path, scarce having time to break his fall with hand or arm.

He lay there for a moment or two, apparently half-dazed; then, slowly picking himself up, leant back with folded arms against an apple-tree, and surveyed me with a sort of sulky resignation.

‘Well, you’ve got the better o’ me again,’ said he; ‘you’ve the luck on your side, nae doot. “Bing lay your shero,”’ I overheard him mutter to himself under his breath, which, taken in conjunction with his name, amply sufficed to confirm my conjecture of his gipsy origin. ‘What is ’t ye want wi’ me?’ he continued, in a louder voice.

‘As I said before,’ I replied slowly, seating myself upon a wooden bench in front of the arbour, ‘I only require fair play for my friend within. A man of the world like yourself can easily deceive him, even to the half of his kingdom; and if he has a fancy to cure the leopard of his spots or whitewash the Ethiopian—or perhaps I might say the “Egyptian” rather—I would like the process to be as inexpensive as possible to him—you understand?’ I queried of my opposite, smiling as I spoke; for I had the whip-hand of him undoubtedly, and to be unpleasant politely is part of the lawyer’s art.

‘To put the matter more clearly still,’ I continued, for he had made no response to my suggestion, ‘I think a week of fresh air and quiet seclusion in the country should be enough for any man of active habits after a period of enforced leisure; the hair, moreover, grows quickly in a country retreat, as Joshua’s messengers found of old, and, briefly, what I would advise is a moonlight flitting.’

Pleased with the brevity of my peroration, I took my cigarette-case from my pocket, and, having selected a cigarette, carefully proceeded to light it with the utmost deliberation.

I had taken my eyes off him for the moment, partly in order to ascertain if the cigarette were properly alight, partly to perfect the illusion of sang froid; and dearly I paid for my rashness, for with a bound he was upon me.

I ducked; but it was too late, and over I went backward, my enemy a-top of me, crash through the arbour on to the stone flagging within.

I was stunned, I suppose, for a minute or so, for I lay there wondering what had happened, and annoyed that a wasp, as I thought, should have stung me in the neck. In another moment I had discovered that the smart was due to a bit of live cigarette-ash that had chanced to drop inside my collar in my fall, and I tried to put up a hand to remove it. To my disgust, I found my hands were knotted tightly together; my legs, too, were bound, and, as I turned my head, my eyes met those of my enemy, sitting beside me on a low stool.

‘The gadgi’ (viz., ‘gorgio,’ or man of non-gipsy race) ‘is but a fool in his pride and self-conceit,’ said he; ‘he is but a tortoise, for all his pushkin’s (hare) gallop at the start.’

This was what I heard him saying as I recovered consciousness, and as I knew that gipsies always hide their origin, and refrain from their language in the presence of the ‘gorgios,’ I felt certain he must be labouring under great excitement, and momentarily expected to see him out with his knife and finish me there and then. Here he stooped, and I thought my hour had come, but apparently it was only to pick up my fallen cigarette. Pinching off the blackened end, he put it between his lips, and, lighting it at the other end, drew in deep breaths of tobacco-smoke.

‘I don’t wonder you enjoy it,’ said I, as I watched his proceedings with an intense annoyance; ‘successful theft is pleasant to a tchor (thief), I presume?’

‘And who’s the tchor in the end,’ retorted he—‘you or me? Speak, little gutterwhelp from the toon, that art paid to lie at so many bars (sovereigns) the lie. Your kind take a man’s money, plead so ill that at the finish the “stande” (gaol) has him, while the big thief’s left behind in court wi’ a white wig on, an’ a smile on his ugly moi (mouth). Who’s the tchor, then?’ he repeated with a leer, as he blew a cloud of smoke in the air. ‘I ’low ye got me nabbed at York ’Sizes, but it wesn’t yor doin’, ’twas that dirty Jack Spraggon, who turned informer an’ legged me that time. Why, ye pink-eyed toon’s-spawn, if I’d my rights, an’ things were as they aince was, I’d hang ye tae the nearest tree. Look there,’ he cried, as, stirring me with his foot, he drew up his coat-sleeve and thrust a tattoed wrist over my eyes—‘look there, d’ye ken what that is?’

I gazed with interest, for it was evidently an heraldic coat, excellently well punctured in his flesh.

‘A lion rampant within a tressure fleury counter fleury, by Jove! debruised by a bar sinister,’ I murmured aloud.

My thoughts went back at a bound to memories of the ‘Gaberlunzie Man’ of the ballad, the errant James V., and ‘ane louit Johnnie Faa, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt,’ but all I said was, ‘Still, people don’t boast of an illegitimate origin nowadays.’

‘Illegitimate!’ he cried angrily; ‘I’ll teach ye manners, ye ——’ but here a step sounded on the path outside, and in another moment my host peered in at the doorway.

‘Tut—tut—tut,’ said my friend, removing his glasses from his nose in his agitation, ‘dear, dear! what can have happened? Speak, Ned; explain, Will.’

My adversary rose to his feet, saluted our interrogator somewhat shamefacedly, and, pointing to myself, replied, ‘He wes sae impiddent wi’ me I’d just tae teach him a lesson, but nae harm’s done.’

‘Oh,’ cried my little friend, and he positively wrung his hands in his distress, ‘but you shouldn’t,’ and here he looked at us reproachfully in turn. Then a happy thought seemed to rise in his brain. ‘We must forget all about this unhappy occurrence,’ cried he; ‘we will not inquire into it, but will shake hands all round, and begin afresh.’

So saying he immediately knelt down, undid my bandages, and helped me to rise from the floor. ‘Now,’ he cried, and seized hold of our respective hands.

‘Well,’ said my antagonist, ‘I bear no malice, but keep yor tongue a bit civiler i’ future.’ ‘And refrain from pheasants and legs of mutton,’ I nearly retorted, but stayed my tongue in time, and the three of us shook hands promptly all round, as desired. I was willing enough to shake hands because I felt I had been in error in taunting my antagonist, but I was not prepared for the reproof my host had in store for me, as he put his arm through mine, and led me away for a stroll up the brae.

‘Oh, how could you do it?’ he said. ‘You must have stung him beyond endurance, and you promised, you remember, to respect him.’

‘I only told him the truth,’ I replied sulkily. ‘As a matter of fact, I recognised in him the first individual I ever had the pleasure of getting convicted—at York Assizes—pheasant-poaching, stoning a keeper, etc. One’s first conviction is like one’s first love—one can’t forget it.’

‘Ah, but if it is so, that is just an incident in that past career of his which is quite dead and buried now; you see yourself how annoyed he was at your bringing it up against him. Of course, his conduct was inexcusable,’ he hastily added, suddenly remembering doubtless that he was my host, ‘but this vigour of resentment proves to my mind the genuineness of his repentance.’

It was hopeless to argue, so I turned the subject, inwardly resolving that I would leave on the morrow.

After supper that evening I went outside to smoke, and there lingered long, enjoying the soft, luminous northern twilight.

The murmur of the stream in the valley trembled amidst the silence of the night, as of some old monk telling his beads in the solitude of a vast cathedral. Suddenly a discordant singing sounded down the vale. ‘Some roysterer,’ thought I with disgust. ‘I suppose there must have been a wedding or some festivity of that sort.’

The sounds rose and fell fitfully, but grew gradually louder. It was evident someone was coming ‘up the wattor,’ and I waited to see who the disturber of our quiet could be.

The last corner had apparently been turned, for now I could hear the voice distinctly. ‘The protÉgÉ again, by Jove!’ I groaned.

I meditated instant flight, but a fit of laughter caught me, and I stayed. Out of the gray twilight a toper lurched up to the gate on which I leant, and, steadying himself, momentarily peered into my face.

‘No malish, little Wool-shack, eh?’ quoth he with a grin. Then, becoming confidential, he leant forward and whispered, ‘Drink ye for a “bar,” turn an’ turn about,’ producing as he spoke a most suspicious-looking black bottle.

‘Look here,’ said I, ‘why did you come to this place?’

‘It’s a free-sh country,’ replied my opposite solemnly, ‘an’ wanderin’s my trade, an’ the wee big bairn upstairs, he’s ta’en a sort o’ woman’s fancy for us. Noo, Wull Blythe’s like his ancient forbears, royal Wull Faa, an’ the lave, an’ he cannot say nae to a woman, though he’ll ne’er tak’ a look frae a man.’

‘Well, good-night,’ I said, ‘and don’t wake the big bairn upstairs.’

It was some time before I finished packing, and after that was done I sat down and had another pipe by the window. I was just dozing off when a smell of burning seemed to creep in upon my nostrils, and the atmosphere grew thicker to my sub-consciousness.

‘It can’t be anything,’ I murmured inwardly, and tried to recede still further into the dark grove of sleep, but a step outside my door effectually roused me.

A light gleamed upon me. ‘Come, my friend, come quick; I fear the house is on fire,’ cried my host at the doorway; ‘throw on a coat, wet your blankets, and follow me upstairs at once with them.’

I rushed upstairs headlong some few seconds after, and stumbled over a prostrate form on the small garret landing, a reek of whisky giving me assurance of its identity. I rose hastily, and passed into the room beyond, where, amidst heavy smoke-wreaths, I perceived my host, now beating burning bedding with his hands, and again stamping with his feet upon smouldering coverings on the floor.

I did my best to help him, and we succeeded shortly in getting the better of the conflagration. After emptying buckets of water over bed and bedding, we waited for some minutes to ascertain if any hidden fire lingered anywhere.

‘I think it will be all right now,’ said my host; ‘but come, we must look after my poor friend outside—I fear he is badly burned. Poor fellow, he was lying in bed stupefied with the smoke. I suppose he must have fallen asleep reading, and the candle must have set fire somehow to the bed-clothes or curtain.’

He had scarcely finished speaking when he swayed suddenly, and before I could reach out an arm, had fallen to the ground in a dead faint. I lifted him up and carried him downstairs at once, and found that he was rather severely burnt about the hands.

After I had restored him to consciousness as best I could and dressed his hurts, I proceeded, at my friend’s earnest entreaty, to look after the protÉgÉ, who was still lying prostrate on the garret landing; absolutely unconscious and hopelessly intoxicated.

He was badly burnt on one arm, and scorched down one side of his body. Appearances seemed to show that he must have thrown off the counterpane and blankets on to the floor, that there they must have become ignited either from his fallen pipe or candle, and eventually have set fire to one side of the bed.

The doctor had to be sent for, and for a week the protÉgÉ was kept in bed; when he did come down again he was as contrite as possible, and I carefully avoided all mention of the disaster, for I had a dim feeling of guilt in the matter, suspecting that he went down the valley that evening to the alehouse in consequence of his excitement at his triumph over myself.

Now that he was about again, and my friend too was quite restored, I determined to depart, and the next morning went down early to the Frolic to enjoy a last bathe.

I was sitting on a shelf of rock above a deep pool, drying myself slowly after my swim, when I heard sounds below me. Looking out from my shelter, I saw Blythe, who appeared to be about to follow my example. His procedure, however, was curious; for first he cast his cap upon the waters, then carefully deposited what looked to me like a Bible on his coat on the bank, and, finally, having looked about him stealthily, took off his shoes and proceeded to ford the burn.

‘He’s off,’ I thought to myself, then cried to him, ‘Holloa! what’s up?’

He stood stock-still in mid-stream like one petrified, then, perceiving me, waded slowly to shore.

‘Noo, don’t ye blab tae Mistor Rutherford,’ he said, as he came close up underneath where I was standing. ‘I’s awa aff. I cannot stay, but I doot the little man will be sair troubled aboot it, sae let him think on as that I’m drooned, wi’ the Bible there tae show I’s a convarted character, for he’s been one tae many for Blythe, an’ I wud’na like him tae grieve ower my disappointing him. I cam’ for a bit fun, but it’s turning tae seriousness noo, an’ I can’t bide any mair, that’s a sartinty.’

I don’t know whether I acted wrongly or not, but I fell in with his view of the situation, and when I had finished my dressing he had already stolen out of sight.

I stayed on another week after this, and during that time successfully concealed my connivance at the protÉgÉ’s flight.

The discovery of his cap and coat was considered proof of his having been drowned, and the Bible, borrowed from himself for the occasion, provided at once a consolation for my friend and a rebuke to my scepticism.

I spent a night in Oldcastle on my way back to town, and chance took me through one of the most thickly populated, though not most aristocratic, quarters of the city. It was a fine night, and I had prolonged my stroll unconsciously. Suddenly the swing-door of a public-house was thrown back violently, and a man came hurtling through, and fell with a thud on the pavement beside me; a face peered through the aperture of the doors for a moment, and in a flash I recognised it.

The gentleman who had been thus ignominiously ‘chucked out’ slowly pulled himself together, collected his faculties and his hat with difficulty, uttered some violent and abusive epithets, then slowly staggered off down the street with drunken dignity.

I went inside the aforesaid doors. My eyes had not deceived me, for there was the protÉgÉ behind the counter in his new capacity of barman and ‘chucker out.’ He signed to me to follow him into the ‘snug,’ and there confided to me that he had got a permanent job for the first time in his life.

‘Here,’ said he, ‘is a bar’ (sovereign); ‘send it along tae Mister Rutherford, an’ tell him I’s alive an’ hearty, an’ that I canna rest till I’s paid for the blankets an’ beddin’ I burnt the other week. Mind,’ says he, ‘ye’re not tae say where I am, but tell him I’ve a situation, an’s givin’ satisfaction.’

‘Well,’ thought I to myself, as I returned to my hotel, ‘if my friend hasn’t reformed the protÉgÉ, he has come at all events as near to success as is good for the ordinary mortal.’