ledged to be the best bat in the E. P. P. G. S. C. C., of which he is still an honorary member.

Like many gentlemen of twenty years, Bailey is a man very likely to improve. He labours under the misfortune of being rather cleverer than the majority of those with whom he is usually brought into contact; and he is a little too conscious of the fact. He is in danger of becoming the centre of a set-a position which occasionally excites those who fill it to do something to create astonishment, when they can no longer command admiration. Already there buzz around him two or three youthful Boswells, schoolfellows who have begun to " go to business" since he left. Persons of this stamp, though they may be invaluable as biographers, are terrible bores in private life, especially when they relate their experiences to those who do not join in paying homage to the object of their adoration. If they seize you by the button, cut it off at once.

It is a sultry afternoon in June, the sky is clouded over, the atmosphere is oppressive in the extreme; yet Mr. Richard Bailey is walking rapidly along the Strand. He is wrapt in thought, and evidently not taking much notice of the passers by. He is thinking what he shall have for supper, in addition to the lamb and lobster salad, at the entertainment which he gives to-night at Barnard's Inn, in honour of his transition from the paternal roof to chambers, and of his recent promotion. As he turns sharply round the corner of St. Martin's Lane, he runs against a tall, pale, rough, black-bearded man, dressed in an old velveteen shooting-coat, a brown cloth cap, pulled far down over his eyes, without collar, but with a blue bird's-eye handkerchief tied round his throat. Favourable mention has already been made of Dick's skill with the gloves. Whatever may be our admiration for the noble art of self-defence in the abstract, it is always to be regretted when a proficiency in it renders amateurs unduly pugnacious. This was the case with Mr. Richard, and it developed occasionally in a tendency to street rows.

As they both recoiled from the concussion, he said to his oppo

nent,

"Now then, stupid, why can't you look where you are going to?" To his intense astonishment, the stranger replied,

"I beg your pardon, I am sure. I hope I have not hurt you."

Dick blushed, and felt ashamed of himself. To receive such a lesson in politeness from one so evidently his inferior, hurt his vanity not a little. He stammered out,—

"Oh, don't mention it; perhaps it was my fault."

Which it certainly was; and they passed on. Bailey had not gone

many steps, however, before there came on one of those sudden thunderstorms which are among the principal characteristics of an English summer. He turned under an archway for shelter, and presently he was joined by his former opponent.

"We meet again," he observed, wishing to make an amende.

"But I trust this is not our Philippi," replied the stranger in velveteen.

"You have seen better days," observed Dick, almost involuntarily. "I doubt whether the days change much, though the men who live in them may alter. I admit the nos mutamur, but deny the tempora mutantur. The principle of compensation pervades all things. It is raining fast now, but the shower has made this pretty young lady take shelter under the same archway with us; a happiness which we should otherwise have missed.

'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.'"

As the stranger said this, he indicated, with a careless wave of his hand, a young woman who had just taken her position by his side, but who could scarcely be said to deserve the compliment. Perhaps she felt so, for she immediately walked on to the next place of shelter. "You have made her go away," said Dick.

"That was my object," he replied. "She was letting the wet oft her umbrella drip all over me."

Dick could not help laughing; but at the same time, the suspicion was engendered in his mind which too many are apt to feel when they meet with more knowledge than they are prepared for in those whom they are pleased to call the lower classes. It occurred to him that the velveteen-clad philosopher might possibly have a reversionary interest in the contents of his pockets. Accordingly, he thrust his hand into that which should contain his purse, and found it safe; but still he moved further away from the other occupant of the archway. He was horrified beyond measure when that individual answered as if his last thoughts had been expressed in so many words. "Don't be alarmed, sir; I am not a pickpocket—at least, not in the ordinary acceptation of the term."

Dick began to stammer out apologies.

"I beg your pardon; but I assure you I never thought—

"Don't apologise, sir, don't apologise. I consider it rather a compliment than not to be mistaken for one. It appears to me that the talents which a pickpocket must possess, are precisely of that order which are required in the highest walks of life. The self-possession and command of countenance, how important to the diplomatist; the

delicacy of touch, how valuable to the operator; but more than all, the power of recognising and seizing on the opportunity—the very first quality of a general or a speculator! There is a tide in the gutter at this moment: that young gentleman-probably a future aspirant for the laurels of the profession-launches his paper boat on it. The vessel was constructed since the commencement of the shower." "I don't think," replied Richard, "we can allow him much credit for originality on that account. You may depend upon it, he has seen other boys make them before when it has rained enough to fill the gutter."

"Then, sir, he profits by experience; and what you are pleased to call originality is merely the judicious combination and reproduction of what experience has taught us."

"I think," observed Richard, "we might as well take shelter in the public opposite, and have some beer."

"By all means: beer is always useful in the morning, and so wide is the circle of intelligent criticism to which it is subjected, that in London at least you can usually depend upon getting it good. I wonder if our literature was as generally appreciated, whether it would attain an equilibrium of equal excellence ?"

So Mr. Bailey and the stranger in velveteen drank beer, and held sweet converse together; and by-and-by Richard was so much dazzled with his strange companion's peculiar genius, his clever conversational powers, and his general oddity of manner and appearance, that it occurred to him to invite the stranger to his evening entertainment.

"There are some men coming to my chambers to-night," he observed, presently, "and there will be some supper. Will you join us?"

Mr. Bailey laid an especial stress on the word "chambers," on account of the dignity which he considered his new abode conferred upon him. He gave his card as he spoke.

"Thank you,” replied the stranger. "I have not a card with me, but my name is 'Smith ;'" and then he appeared to hesitate.

Bailey thought that some misgivings about his dress were the cause of this, so he said, to re-assure him,

"Oh, you need not mind about dressing, you know; there will be no ladies, and we shall all be in the rough."

Smith smiled a peculiar smile, and replied,

"Oh, very well. I can't promise to be with you very early; but I will come as soon as I can."

And so they parted.

CHAPTER II.

MR. BAILEY'S PARTY.

A CONVIVIAL party is assembled in Mr. Bailey's chambers at Barnard's Inn. The whist parties are broken up, and during the interval preceding supper, Richard is describing to his friends his new acquaintance of the afternoon. But though he gives a pretty accurate account of his personal appearance, he is not equally successful in repeating the conversation which has induced him to invite the expected guest.

"Oh," says young Rogers, in reply, "evidently a broken down usher, discharged for getting drunk."

Mr. Rogers had now been for six months in an accountant's office, but he still retained a vivid remembrance of various differences of opinion between himself and the arithmetic master at the Balls Pond School, which frequently had a painful termination.

"You must excuse me," observes Mr. Miffkins, "but I don't think, Bailey, you were right in asking this fellow. It is all very well for you, with your democratic views, to patronise any scum you may pick up yourself; but I do not think you should introduce them to your friends."

"Well, my dear fellow," says Dick, "I need not introduce him to anybody who does not like it; and nobody is ever likely to see him again after to-night, and if they do they need not notice him."

"But suppose he was to bow to one in the park?”

As Mr. Miffkins was usually occupied from nine in the morning until nine at night as a junior ledger clerk in a wholesale house, his promenades in the park were restricted to the bridge on Sunday afternoons; and there did not therefore appear any imminent danger of the catastrophe he predicted.

As Miffkins uttered the word "park," there was a sharp tap at the door, which was immediately afterwards opened, and there entered a man in a loose grey overcoat and opera hat. As he removed these, he disclosed the form of Mr. Smith. But scarcely Mr. Smith of the afternoon. The street lounger whom Bailey had mistaken for a pickpocket was transformed into a fashionable-looking man. He was in evening dress, and as he nodded to Bailey, he said, "Excuse my array, but I have just come from the opera."

"Gallery stalls?" inquired Miffkins.

"No," replied Smith, "I was obliged to do the grand tier to-night. But I like the gallery, though. Certainly you cannot either see or hear;

but sometimes that is an advantage; and if you listen to the criticism of your neighbours, you are sure to be rewarded for your ascent. At any rate, you are certain to obtain some novel information with regard to the identity of the performers."

"Miffkins," said Bailey, "you will allow me to introduce to you my friend Mr. Smith." It had already occurred to Miffkins, that the account which Bailey had given of Smith was simply intended to sell his friends, so he rose, bowed, and said, "Certainly."

Miffkins was a short, stout, young man. He did not wear either whiskers or moustache, but rejoiced in the possession of one of those bunches of hair upon the chin which naturally recall to our memory the fairy tale of our childhood, "Ricquet with the Tuft;" though I believe it was on his head and not upon his chin, that that celebrated personage wore the decoration to which he owes his fame. Mr. Miffkins also wore a dress coat; but a fastidious person might have considered that its otherwise imposing effect was injured by his blue scarf and coffee-coloured trousers.

As the two men bowed to one another, the rest of the party could not help remembering the anxiety of Miffkins lest he should be compromised by the stranger claiming his acquaintance in public. As they glanced from one to the other, there was a very slightly suppressed laugh.

Miffkins not unnaturally felt rather uncomfortable, but immediately determined to fall back upon his reputation as a sporting man, upon which he prided himself much. Accordingly he addressed himself in a loud voice to a man who was sitting in the most distant corner of the room,

"Well, Jones, about the Goodwood! Do you mean to take that seven to one about Europa?”

"Make it eight," replied Jones.

"I don't mind fifteen to two."

"Excuse me, Mr. Miffkins," observed Smith, "but you are probably not aware that Europa has just been scratched."

"The odds against her are quoted in the evening papers," said Miffkins, fiercely.

"I am aware of that; but I met Trumpington in the lobby as I came out, and he told me he had just scratched her."

"Lord Trumpington?" inquired Jones, with awe. "Yes; the owner."

Whereupon Miffkins subsided into his boots once more, and was sulky.

But Smith was anxious that the harmony of the evening should