ragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his
fingers--an art to the practice of which he had been reduced--and
bitterly lamented his concessions.

"I can't stay here a month," he cried. "No one could. The thing's
nonsense, Morris. The parties that lived in the Bastille would rise
against a place like this."

With an admirable affectation of indifference, Morris proposed a game of
pitch-and-toss. To what will not the diplomatist condescend! It was
John's favourite game; indeed his only game--he had found all the rest
too intellectual--and he played it with equal skill and good fortune. To
Morris himself, on the other hand, the whole business was detestable; he
was a bad pitcher, he had no luck in tossing, and he was one who
suffered torments when he lost. But John was in a dangerous humour, and
his brother was prepared for any sacrifice.

By seven o'clock, Morris, with incredible agony, had lost a couple of
half-crowns. Even with the tontine before his eyes, this was as much as
he could bear; and, remarking that he would take his revenge some other
time, he proposed a bit of supper and a grog.

Before they had made an end of this refreshment it was time to be at
work. A bucket of water for present necessities was withdrawn from the
water-butt, which was then emptied and rolled before the kitchen fire to
dry; and the two brothers set forth on their adventure under a starless
heaven.

CHAPTER III

THE LECTURER AT LARGE

Whether mankind is really partial to happiness is an open question. Not
a month passes by but some cherished son runs off into the merchant
service, or some valued husband decamps to Texas with a lady help;
clergymen have fled from their parishioners; and even judges have been
known to retire. To an open mind, it will appear (upon the whole) less
strange that Joseph Finsbury should have been led to entertain ideas of
escape. His lot (I think we may say) was not a happy one. My friend, Mr.
Morris, with whom I travel up twice or thrice a week from Snaresbrook
Park, is certainly a gentleman whom I esteem; but he was scarce a model
nephew. As for John, he is of course an excellent fellow; but if he was
the only link that bound one to a home, I think the most of us would
vote for foreign travel. In the case of Joseph, John (if he were a link
at all) was not the only one; endearing bonds had long enchained the old
gentleman to Bloomsbury; and by these expressions I do not in the least