id to trust
me with 'em,' he says.

"'Wa'al, I'll be here,' I says, an' handed 'em over. Wa'al, sir, I see
jest by the way he took holt on 'em it wa'n't the fust time, an' we went
along to where the road turns in through a piece of woods, an' the track
is narrer, an' we run slap onto one o' them dum'd road-engines that had
got wee-wawed putty near square across the track. Now I tell ye," said
Mr. Harum, "them hosses didn't like it fer a cent, an' tell the truth I
didn't like it no better. We couldn't go ahead fer we couldn't git by
the cussed thing, an' the hosses was 'par'ntly tryin' to git back under
the buggy, an', scat my ----! if he didn't straighten 'em out an' back
'em 'round in that narrer road, an' hardly scraped a wheel. Yes, sir,"
declared Mr. Harum, "I couldn't 'a' done it slicker myself, an' I don't
know nobody that could."

"Guess you must 'a' felt a little ticklish yourself," said Dick
sympathetically, laughing as usual.

"Wa'al, you better believe," declared the other. "The' was 'bout half a
minute when I'd have sold out mighty cheap, an' took a promise fer the
money. He's welcome to drive any team in _my_ barn," said David,
feeling--in which view Mr. Larrabee shared--that encomium was pretty
well exhausted in that assertion.

"I don't believe," said Mr. Harum after a moment, in which he and his
companion reflected upon the gravity of his last declaration, "that
the's any dum thing that feller can't do. The last thing 's a piany.
He's got a little one that stands up on it's hind legs in his room, an'
he c'n play it with both hands 'thout lookin' on. Yes, sir, we have
reg'lar concerts at my house ev'ry Sunday night, admission free, an'
childern half price, an'," said David, "you'd ought to hear him an'
Polly sing, an'--he, he, he! you'd ought to _see_ her singin'--tickleder
'n a little dog with a nosegay tied to his tail."

CHAPTER XXXII.

Our friend's acquaintance with the rector of St. James's church had
grown into something like friendship, and the two men were quite often
together in the evening. John went sometimes to Mr. Euston's house, and
not unfrequently the latter would spend an hour in John's room over a
cigar and a chat. On one of the latter occasions, late in the autumn,
Mr. Euston went to the piano after sitting a few minutes and looked over
some of the music, among which were two or three hymnals. "You are
musical," he said.

"In a modest way," was the reply.

"I am very