eed was his interest and amazement as they reached the
steps beside the river, and Harry signalled to a waterman to bring
up a wherry alongside to take them to the Folly. He had never
imagined anything so wide and grand as this great flowing river,
lined with its stately buildings, and bearing on its bosom more
vessels than he imagined that the world held! Had it not been for
his fear of betraying undue ignorance, he would have broken into a
torrent of questions; as it was, he sat in wide-eyed silence,
gazing about him like a savage suddenly transported into the world
of civilization--not a little to the amusement of his cicerone.

The Folly was a floating structure not unlike a large houseboat of
the present day. Its guests could walk to and fro upon the roof, or
find warmth and entertainment within its walls, as did Harry and
his friend; for although the sun shone, the wind blew cold upon the
water, and it was pleasanter within the warmed interior, where
already a sprinkling of guests had assembled.

The place was divided into two rooms for the public accommodation.
The first of these was a bar and gaming room. A buxom and
rosy-cheeked damsel was presiding at the bar, and several young
dandies leaned their elbows upon it, and strove to engage her in
conversation. Some others were already seated at a table, and were
throwing the dice, laughing and swearing ceaselessly over their
game. The second room was quieter at present, and upon the table
there lay strewn about the various newspapers and pamphlets of the
day. Two or three men were reading them, and discussing the news of
the hour as they sipped their coffee or chocolate.

Harry led the way into this place, ordered coffee for himself and
his friend, and, whilst nodding familiarly to the occupants of the
room, possessed himself of a few papers, and pushed some of them
across to Tom.

"A new pamphlet by Jonathan Swift, I see," he remarked carelessly,
with a wink at his pupil. "You know his Tale of a Tub, Tom?
Monstrous clever thing that! It tickles one to death reading it. So
do his pamphlets--sharpest things out. Some talk of Defoe as his
rival; but, for my part, I never read anything that rivals Swift's
writings! Pity he has such a sharp edge to his temper. They say he
will never get promotion."

Tom took up the pamphlet, and tried to look as though he were
reading it with appreciation; but he had never been much of a
student, and the comings and goings of a