duction or per centage.

Thirdly, he ordered of Richard Buckle, commonly called Dick the Tanner,
a lot of cart harness, without haggling for price, or even asking it.

And, fourthly, he presented old George White, who was coming round with
a subscription paper for a dead pig--actually, he presented old Gaffer
White with the sum of two-pence out of his own pocket! never was such
careless prodigality.

But the little world of Hurstley did not know what we know. They
possessed no clue to the secret happiness wherewithal Simon Jennings
hugged himself; they had no inkling of the crock of gold; they thought
not he was going to be suddenly so rich; they saw no cause, as we do,
why he should feel to be like a great heir on the eve of his majority;
they wotted not that Sir John Devereux Vincent, Baronet, had scarcely
more agreeable or triumphant feelings when his clock struck twenty-one,
than Simon Jennings, butler, as the hour of his hope drew nigh.

If a destiny like this man's can ever have a crisis, the hour of his
hope is that; but downward still, into a lower gulf, has been
continually his bad career; there is (unless a miracle intervene) no
stopping in the slope on which he glides, albeit there may be
precipices. He that rushes in his sledge down the artificial ice-hills
of St. Petersburgh, skims along not more swiftly than Jennings, from the
altitude of infant innocence, had sheered into the depths of full-grown
depravity; but even he can fall, and reach, with startling suddenness, a
lower deep.

As if that Russian mountain, hewn asunder midway, were fitted flush to
a Norwegian cliff, beetling precipitately over the whirlpool; then tilt
the sledge with its furred inmate over the slope, let it skim with
quicker impetus the smoking ice, let it touch that beetling edge, and,
leaping from the tangent, let it dart through the air, let it strike the
eddying waters, be sucked hurriedly down that hoarse black throat, wind
among the roots of the everlasting hills, and split upon the loadstone
of the centre.

Even such a fate, "down, down to hell," will come to Simon Jennings;
wrapped in the furs of complacency, seated in the sledge of
covetousness, a-down the slippery launch of well-worn evil habit--over
the precipice of crime--into the billows of impenitent remorse--to be
swallowed by the vortex of Gehenna!

CHAPTER XXV.

THE AMBUSCADE.

NIGHT came, and with it all black thoughts. Not that they were
black at