y, in the meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap
rakishly tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for
nursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent, one arm clutching to his
heart _Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper_.

To him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of voyagers.
These two had saved the train and no more. A tandem urged to its last
speed, an act of something closely bordering on brigandage at the ticket
office, and a spasm of running, had brought them on the platform just as
the engine uttered its departing snort. There was but one carriage
easily within their reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader
and elder already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr.
Finsbury.

"Good God!" he cried. "Uncle Joseph! This'll never do."

And he backed out, almost upsetting his companion, and once more closed
the door upon the sleeping patriarch.

The next moment the pair had jumped into the baggage van.

"What's the row about your Uncle Joseph?" inquired the younger
traveller, mopping his brow. "Does he object to smoking?"

"I don't know that there's anything the row with him," returned the
other. "He's by no means the first comer, my Uncle Joseph, I can tell
you! Very respectable old gentleman; interested in leather; been to Asia
Minor; no family, no assets--and a tongue, my dear Wickham, sharper than
a serpent's tooth."

"Cantankerous old party, eh?" suggested Wickham.

"Not in the least," cried the other; "only a man with a solid talent for
being a bore; rather cheery I dare say, on a desert island, but on a
railway journey insupportable. You should hear him on Tonti, the ass
that started tontines. He's incredible on Tonti."

"By Jove!" cried Wickham, "then you're one of these Finsbury tontine
fellows. I hadn't a guess of that."

"Ah!" said the other, "do you know that old boy in the carriage is worth
a hundred thousand pounds to me? There he was asleep, and nobody there
but you! But I spared him, because I'm a Conservative in politics."

Mr. Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and fro
like a gentlemanly butterfly.

"By Jingo!" he cried, "here's something for you! 'M. Finsbury, 16 John
Street, Bloomsbury, London.' M. stands for Michael, you sly dog; you
keep two establishments, do you?"

"O, that's Morris," responded Michael from the other end of the van,
where he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks. "He's a little
cousin o