herto been denied him. For this he is seeking
a place in the new world where the partner of his life and the desire
of his eyes may not find it easy to yield to her besetting temptation,
where the air and his steadfast love will "do her good."

But all my acquaintances are not heroes, for I am sorry to say that
my old friend Downy has served his term of penal servitude, and is at
liberty once more to beg or steal. He is not ashamed to beg, but I know
that he prefers stealing, for he richly enjoys anything obtained "on the
cross," and cares little for the fruits of honest labour.

Downy therefore never crosses my doorstep, and when I hold communication
with him he stands on the doorstep where I bar his entrance.

Yet I like the vagabond, for he is a humorous rascal, and though I know
that I ought to be severe with him, I fail dismally when I try to exhort
him. "Now, look here, old man," he will say, "stop preaching; what are
you going to do to help a fellow; do you think I live this life for fun"
and his eyes twinkle! When I tell him that I am sure of it, he roars.
Yes, I am certain of it, Downy is a thief for the fun of it; he is the
worst and cleverest sneak I have the privilege of knowing; and yet
there is such audacity about him and his actions that even his most
reprehensible deeds do not disgust me.

He is of the spare and lean kind, but were he fatter he might well pose
as a modern Jack Falstaff, for his one idea is summed up in Falstaff's
words: "Where shall we take a purse to-night?" Downy, of course,
obtained full remission of his sentence; he did all that was required
of him in prison, and so reduced his five years' sentence by fifteen
months. But I feel certain that he did nor spend three years and nine
months in a convict establishment without robbing a good many, and the
more difficult he found the task, the more he would enjoy it.

I expect his education is now complete, so I have to beware of Downy,
for he would glory in the very thought of "besting" me, so I laugh and
joke with the rascal, but keep him at arm's length. We discuss matters
on the doorstep; if he looks ill I have pity on him, and subsidise him.
Sometimes his merry look changes to a half-pathetic look, and he goes
away to his "doss house," realising that after all his "besting" he
might have done better.

Some of my friends have crossed the river, but as I think of them they
come back and bid me tell their stories. Here is my old friend