y assorted friends sat
side by side in the dim candle-light, going over the wonderful story of
the Pilgrim. Reginald judiciously steered the course through the most
thrilling parts of the narrative, carefully avoiding whatever might have
seemed to the boy dull or digressive.

Love stopped in his reading frequently to discuss the merits of the
story and deliver himself of his opinion as to what he would have done
under similar circumstances. He would have made short work with the
lions chained by the roadside; he would have taken a bull's-eye lantern
through the dark valley; and as for the river at the end, he couldn't
understand anybody coming to grief there. Why, at Victoria Park last
Whit Monday he had swum three-quarters of a mile himself!

In vain Reginald pointed out that Christian had his armour on. The
young critic would not allow this as an excuse, and brought up cases of
gentlemen of his acquaintance who had swum incredible distances in their
clothes and boots.

But the story that delighted him most was that of the man who hacked his
way into the palace. This was an adventure after his own heart. He
read it over and over again, and was unsparing in his admiration of the
hero, whom he compared for prowess with "Will Warspite the Pirate," and
"Dick Turpin," and even his late favourite "Tim Tigerskin." His
interest in him was indeed so great that he allowed Reginald in a few
simple words to say what it meant, and to explain how we could all, if
we went the right way about it, do as great things as he did.

"Why you, youngster, when you made up your mind you wouldn't read any
more of those bad books, you knocked over one of your enemies."

"Did I, though? how far in did I get?"

"You got over the doorstep, anyhow; but you've got plenty more to knock
over before you get right into the place. So have I."

"My eye, gov'nor," cried the boy, his grimy face lighting up with an
excited flush, "we'll let 'em 'ave it!"

They read and discussed and argued far into the night; and when at last
Reginald gave the order to go to bed there were no two friends more
devoted than the Secretary of the Select Agency Corporation and his
office-boy.

Love's sleep that night was like the sleep of a pugilistic terrier, who
in his dreams encounters and overcomes even deep-mouthed mastiffs and
colossal Saint Bernards. He sniffed and snorted defiance as he lay, and
his brow was damp with the sweat of battle, and his lips cu