s as weeds when the blight has
caught them. It is nearly always the bright lad of a family, the most
promising, the mother's darling, that goes wrong; it is the brilliant
students, the men of whom one says, "Ah, what could he not do if he
would only try!" is those who trip, and quench their brilliance in the
mud. A little rift in the fabric of the will, a little instability of
temper, an unlucky week of idleness--these are the things that start a
man towards the very gulf of doom. Bob Darbishire, the athlete, the
delightful and exhilarating companion, was set gliding on the slope, and
now he and his hopes and his unknown capabilities have passed away,
deeper than ever plummet sounded. It is a big puzzle. I am a loafer, and
I suppose I shall never be anything else, so it is not for me to solve
the ugly problem.

The Ramper fawned on me, and asked me if I had heard of "that there pore
young bloke wot kicked the bucket upstairs."

I said, "Yes; I fancy he was murdered. Do you know who took the brandy
up to him?"

The Ramper looked very wicked, but merely answered, "'Ow should I know?
He arst me, and I goes and says, 'No, sir; not for a thick 'un.' I see
'ow he was. I've 'ad 'em on myself, and I knowed as 'ow he wasn't up
there for nothing."

The Ramper is undoubtedly a liar.

The Wanderer often asked me to call, for he knows that I have a stiff
flask in my pocket every night. I have pieced out the rest of his story,
and I shall put it into my book when I am less glum. At present I swear
every day that I shall turn temperance lecturer, and spend my money on
the Cause; but, somehow, habit, and my roving blood, are too much for
me. Like all men of my sort, from Burns downward, I can see evils
clearly, and state their nature plainly enough; but when it comes to
keeping clear of them, I resemble my tribe in being rather unhandy at
judicious strategy. _Vogue la galere!_

Three months more have gone and my journals have never been written up,
save in chance scraps. The Wanderer is quite as interesting as ever! I
took the odds to L2 with him over a race run at Newmarket, and he paid
promptly. He puts out little signs of improvement--sprouts of
gentility--at times: but one heavy spell of gin and Shakespeare takes
him back to the old level again. Still, he is more amusing than the
dandies; in fact, I do not think I shall go amongst the respectable
division again. I make no pretence of immolating myself: I go among the
blackg