in the sporting papers; but having got old, puffy, and thirsty, and having sold so many fights and so many backers that no one at last could be found daring enough to either front him or back him, he had at last thrown up the sponge, and gracefully retired under the shade of his own laurels, behind the bar of private life. Handsome but for a broken nose, brave but for his fat, virtuous but for a strong disposition to low gambling, Porky Jenkins was respected by his brewer, honoured by the poachers whose game he bought, and feared by every one but his wife.

The "Flying Dutchman" was an inn where many sorts of beer were drawn, and many sorts of business transacted. Inquests were held in that little wainscoted parlour, and also public meetings; there raffles took place, and there "the Sons of Apollo" chanted; there bargains were struck; and there, over 'gin and water, foreign wars and home taxes were discussed. In fact the "Flying Dutchman" was at once a goose-club, a music-hall, a market-room, a tavern, and a betting-booth.

On the October night I refer to, a raffle was being held a raffle, I may say, unprecedented, whether we take into consideration the enormous nature of the prize, or the ridiculously low sum that each person engaged in it had to risk. I would give any one from Shrovetide to Shrovetide, and he would not guess what it was the small tradesmen of Pipington-cum-Tabor were raffling for, that October night in question. A fat goose and a bottle of Old Tom? Not a bit of it. A mangle and a garden-roller? No. No. A piano and a chestnut mare? But, dear me, I had forgotten; I let it all out in the title of my story. Well, it was, I own it, of all things in the world, that ponderous freak of creation-an elephant, and going at a great sacrifice too. It was being raffled for by forty members, who had laid down ten shillings each, and were now throwing dice for the stupendous and rather impracticable prize.

The forty members-Buckle, the saddler; Lacy, the tailor; Duff, the baker; Chickenbody, the greengrocer

Stithy, the blacksmith; Howell, the gardener, with the other thirty-four competitors were in a state of feverish wrangling and garrulous excitement, partly owing to gin and water, partly owing to the heat of competition. Chickenbody, the little weak-minded greengrocer, had actually, in defiance of his acid and "nagging" wife, bought all the three shares of Porky Jenkins, who had parted with them with feigned reluctance, and only on receiving a bonus of one pound sterling and a glass of gin and bitters. Thirty-nine white clay-pipes were pointing and nodding simultaneously at Chickenbody, who never could smoke, and therefore very wisely abstained-Augustus Chickenbody, who had four chances, and who had just thrown ties with Duff the baker, and was going to throw again for the conqueror. If the elephant had been the Koh-i-noor, or the goose with the golden eggs and still alive, Chickenbody could not have been more excited; he forgot at that moment the high price of potatoes, and even his wife, whom he had that night left on plea of urgent business with a market-gardener at Coddlington.

But here I must digress from my main subject, and explain how it was that an elephant ever found its way to Pipington-cum-Tabor, and also why it was put up to raffle, when we all know that people generally only raffle for kettle-holders, explosive guns, rickety dressing-cases, and other small and useful articles. This is how it was. The elephant raffled for was no commo elephant, but a celebrated performing animal once belonging to "THE ROYAL IMPERIAL OLYMPIC CENtralizaTION CIRCUS COMPANY," who had lately been performing the "Bombardment of Samarcand," in which piece the aforesaid elephant figured as "RUNJEET SINGH, the favourite elephant of the EMPEROR Tamerlane.”

Now, the Royal Imperial Olympic Centralization Circus Company had wandered through the homecounties with great loss, and had finally gone to pieces, and been left a complete wreck at Pipington-cumTabor. The company had before this rolled on from

place to place, throwing over goods to the storm, till little but the bare hulk was left for Mr. Horatio Fitzjones De Beverley to steer into port. One by one the tumblers, riders, and grooms had deserted, till only an elephant, some vans, a few dresses, an Arab mahout or elephant-driver, and Mr. H. F. De Beverley himself, were left. The last-named gentleman revelling without money, had, rumour said, so entangled himself in debt at his quarters at the Flying Dutchman, as to compel him to sell his vans, and finally to put up his last elephant for raffle.

Mr.

There were only three people in the room that night who did not seem to share the general excitementthese were Porky Jenkins, Mr. H. F. De Beverley, and the real Arab with the Tipperary countenance. De Beverley, with the plaid and cloth waistcoat, festooned with gold chain, sat especially still in his chair, and preserved an undeviating expression of benevolence.

But while fortune was still poising her scales above the heads of Augustus Chickenbody and Ezra Duff, the air rang with cries of "Tommy Dods !" "Odd man out!" "Man !" "Woman !" "Heads, I win!" "Tails, you lose!" "One to me!" and other competing cries. The air seemed full of rattling dice. At last, at the third throw, Chickenbody flings sixes. The elephantthe elephant is his ! Mr. De Beverley announces the fact in the voice of Hamlet's ghost, and Porky Jenkins strikes the table a tremendous blow with a pewter pint-pot, and cries: "Going, going, gone!" The thirty-nine rafflers crowded round Chickenbody, and congratulated him. Mr. De Beverley offered him ten pounds for his prize.

Chickenbody, with his hair slightly over his forehead, which did not, however, disturb him, and with his thumbs à la Sir Robert Peel, in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, declared they were "jolly companionsh every one," and ordered glasses round, on Porky Jenkins requesting to know what he was going to stand.

At a

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later hour, he begged Mr. De Beverley-who had just given the company the love-scene from "Romeo and Juliet" to "hand over the elephant," which the manager said was a good one," and promised that the animal should be sent round in the morning in the care of Abdallah, the real Arab, who would take care of it for twelve shillings a week. A little after twelve, Mr. Chickenbody, scared by the reproachful chimes of St. Simon Magus, returned home singing

"Th' oak, th' oak, brav' old oak,

That has dwelt in th' greenwood long-Rule, Britannia!" His wife unbolted the door, and let down the chain.

"Hurrah, Louisa!" he cried, "I've won the elephant; it's coming with the milk in the morning. Won th' elephant-yes, Loo, so I have!"

"Mr. Chickenbody," said the austere lady, "I'm ashamed of you! You've been drinking again. Get to bed; you don't know what you're talking about. Get to bed, sir!"

The next morning, Mr. Chickenbody was awakened from a pleasant dream by a scream from his wife, who had risen before him, and who was dressed and looking out of window.

"Gustus! Gustus!" she screamed, “here's an elephant knocking at our door. Why, you horrid wretch, what have you been doing?"

It was too true; the next moment came a knock at the window, and the real Arab, with a big white turban on his cocoa-nut of a head, appeared mounted on a huge elephant. Mrs. Chickenbody threw up the window and screamed—

"Get away, man; we have nothing for you."

The man replied, as cool as a cucumber, in his jargon: "I Abdallah. Massa Chickenbody win elephant. I bring elephant. Where elephant go, Abdallah go, bedad. Where am I to put him up, ma'am?”

"Is this true, Mr. Chickenbody?" inquired the lady of her miserable husband, who only groaned and hid his head in the bedclothes.

"It is true," he said; "the elephant is mine. Have him hid away in the stable, and give the man some breakfast. He'll be useful to drive our light cart, and take round the vegetables."

"Take round the vegetables!" said Mrs. Chickenbody, in an emphatic voice, expressive of the deepest scorn, Oh, you wretch! And is he to drive the elephant in the new cart? What next?"

The whole of the next day was spent by Mr. Chickenbody in studying from a book on natural history, borrowed from the schoolmaster of Pipington-cum-Tabor, the habits and customs of his new possession.

"Wonderful animal!" observed Mr. Chickenbody to his wife, after his first hour's reading-"intelligent animal! will cost us nothing, my dear, for we can feed him on the spoiled vegetables; he'll eat leaves, or grass, or anything, Abdallah says; and when we get tired of him, we can make a fortune showing him about the country, or selling him to the Muddleton Zoological Gardens."

"Stuff and nonsense!" replied the unappeasable Mrs. C. "You'll ruin yourself with your fancies; you'll spend my hundred and twenty pounds in a month, in merely feeding that monster."

Mr. Chickenbody, obstinate for once, went on reading: "This gigantic and clever animal has been trained to pile logs, drag cannon, and lay buildingstones. Its tusks weigh about one hundred and twenty pounds. The foot of the elephant is admirably formed, and the horny plates of the hoof are arranged on the principle of the common carriage-springCome in."

These last words were not in the text, but were the result of a loud knock at the door. It was Abdallah, who, making a salaam, said, "Massa Chickenbody, Runjeet Singh bery hungry-bery mad, bery bad toothache-want grub. No give grub, he cry Urumph!' break down shed, everything, and kill somebody— everybody."