all him (I like the title of Major very much),
requested to see me, named a dead gentleman who he said had been our
mutual friend, and on the strength of this mutual acquaintance, begged
me to cash his cheque for five pounds!

It is these things, my dear sir, which serve to make a man cynical. I do
conscientiously believe that had I cashed the Major's cheque there
would have been a difficulty about payment on the part of the respected
bankers on whom he drew. On your honor and conscience, do you think that
old widow who was walking from Tunbridge Wells to Harlow had a daughter
ill, and was an honest woman at all? The daughter couldn't always, you
see, be being ill, and her mother on her way to her dear child through
Hyde Park. In the same way some habitual sneerers may be inclined to
hint that the cabman's story was an invention--or at any rate, choose
to ride off (so to speak) on the doubt. No. My opinion, I own, is
unfavorable as regards the widow from Tunbridge Wells, and Major
Delamere; but, believing the cabman was honest, I am glad to think he
was not injured by the reader's most humble servant.

What a queer, exciting life this rogue's march must be: this attempt of
the bad half-crowns to get into circulation! Had my distinguished friend
the Major knocked at many doors that morning, before operating on mine?
The sport must be something akin to the pleasure of tiger or elephant
hunting. What ingenuity the sportsman must have in tracing his
prey--what daring and caution in coming upon him! What coolness in
facing the angry animal (for, after all, a man on whom you draw a cheque
a bout portant will be angry). What a delicious thrill of triumph, if
you can bring him down! If I have money at the banker's and draw for
a portion of it over the counter, that is mere prose--any dolt can do
that. But, having no balance, say I drive up in a cab, present a cheque
at Coutts's, and, receiving the amount, drive off? What a glorious
morning's sport that has been! How superior in excitement to the common
transactions of every-day life! . . . I must tell a story; it is against
myself, I know, but it WILL out, and perhaps my mind will be the easier.

More than twenty years ago, in an island remarkable for its verdure, I
met four or five times one of the most agreeable companions with whom
I have passed a night. I heard that evil times had come upon this
gentleman; and, overtaking him in a road near my own house one evening,
I ask