the same sort of relationship to it.

"You don't dare," Sedgett pursued. "And why should you, sir? there's
ne'er a reason why. I'm civil. I asks for my own: no more 'n my own, it
ain't. I call the bargain good: why sh'd I want fur to break it? I want
the money bad. I'm sick o' this country. I'd like to be off in the first
ship that sails. Can't you let me have ten till to-morrow? then t' other
forty. I've got a mortal need for it, that I have. Come, it's no use your
walking at that rate; my legs are's good as yours."

Algernon had turned back to the great thoroughfare. He was afraid that
ten pounds must be forfeited to this worrying demon in the flesh, and
sought the countenance of his well-dressed fellows to encourage him in
resisting. He could think of no subterfuge; menace was clearly useless:
and yet the idea of changeing one of the notes and for so infamous a
creature, caused pangs that helped him further to endure his dogging feet
and filthy tongue. This continued until he saw a woman's hand waving from
a cab. Presuming that such a signal, objectionable as it was, must be
addressed to himself, he considered whether he should lift his hat, or
simply smile as a favoured, but not too deeply flattered, man. The cab
drew up, and the woman said, "Sedgett." She was a well-looking woman,
strongly coloured, brown-eyed, and hearty in appearance.

"What a brute you are, Sedgett, not to be at home when you brought me up
to London with all the boxes and bedding--my goodness! It's a Providence
I caught you in my eye, or I should have been driving down to the docks,
and seeing about the ship. You are a brute. Come in, at once."

"If you're up to calling names, I've got one or two for you," Sedgett
growled.

Algernon had heard enough. Sure that he had left Sedgett in hands not
likely to relinquish him, he passed on with elastic step. Wine was
greatly desired, after his torments. Where was credit to be had? True, he
looked contemptuously on the blooming land of credit now, but an entry to
it by one of the back doors would have been convenient, so that he might
be nourished and restored by a benevolent dinner, while he kept his
Thousand intact. However, he dismissed the contemplation of credit and
its transient charms. "I won't dine at all," he said.

A beggar woman stretched out her hand--he dropped a shilling in it.

"Hang me, if I shall be able to," was his next reflection; and with the
remaining three and sixpence, he cro