amiliar haunts
of my childhood after my long imprisonment in London; and, even if there
were no more congenial friend than Cad Prog to hail me, it would at
least be a change from this dreary city, with its noise and bustle, and
disappointed hopes and lost friendships.

But my intention in this direction was upset by a double reason. One
was that I had no money. Indeed, my debts had got so far ahead of my
means that it was clear a crisis in my financial affairs must soon come.
The other reason was an invitation to join in a grand day's excursion
by road to Windsor.

It came from Hawkesbury.

"Are you doing anything particular on Monday?" he asked me, a day or two
before the holiday.

"No; I half thought of going home, but I can't afford that, so I may go
to the British Museum."

"Not a very cheerful place to spend a holiday," laughed Hawkesbury.
"What do you say to coming a quiet drive with me?"

Had the invitation come from Crow or Daly, or even Doubleday, I should
have regarded it shyly. But Hawkesbury was a steady fellow, I thought,
and not likely to lead one into mischief.

"I should like it awfully!" I said, "only--that is--I don't think I can
afford it."

"Oh!" said he, smiling affably, "you shan't be at any expense at all.
It's my affair, and I should like to take you with me."

Of course my gratitude was as profuse as it was sincere.

"My idea was," continued Hawkesbury, "to get a dogcart for the day and
go somewhere in the direction of Windsor, taking our own provender with
us, and having a jolly healthy day in the open air."

Nothing could be more delightful or more in accordance with my own
wishes.

"Will it be just you and I?" I asked.

"Well, these traps generally hold four. I thought perhaps Whipcord
would come for one; he's a good driver, you know, and a steady enough
fellow when he's by himself. And there's a friend of mine called Masham
I mean to ask as well."

I would have preferred it if the expedition had been confined to
Hawkesbury and myself, but I had no right to be discontented with the
arrangements which had been made, and spent the next few days in eager
anticipation.

I wondered what Jack Smith meant to do on his holiday; most likely he
would be reading hard for his "Sam," as Billy called it. It seemed
shabby of me to go off on a spree and leave him to drudge; but, as
Hawkesbury said when I referred to the matter, it would just show him
what he missed by holding alo