er, "and an
uncommon queer story it is. Most people don't believe it. It's true,
though, for all that. Why, just look at him," continued the landlord,
opening the stable door again. "Poor devil! he's so worn out with his
restless nights that he's dropped back into his sleep already."

"Don't wake him," I said; "I'm in no hurry for the gig. Wait till the
other man comes back from his errand; and, in the meantime, suppose I
have some lunch and a bottle of sherry, and suppose you come and help me
to get through it?"

The heart of mine host, as I had anticipated, warmed to me over his own
wine. He soon became communicative on the subject of the man asleep in
the stable, and by little and little I drew the whole story out of him.
Extravagant and incredible as the events must appear to everybody, they
are related here just as I heard them and just as they happened.

CHAPTER II.

SOME years ago there lived in the suburbs of a large seaport town on
the west coast of England a man in humble circumstances, by name Isaac
Scatchard. His means of subsistence were derived from any employment
that he could get as an hostler, and occasionally, when times went well
with him, from temporary engagements in service as stable-helper in
private houses. Though a faithful, steady, and honest man, he got on
badly in his calling. His ill luck was proverbial among his neighbors.
He was always missing good opportunities by no fault of his own, and
always living longest in service with amiable people who were not
punctual payers of wages. "Unlucky Isaac" was his nickname in his own
neighborhood, and no one could say that he did not richly deserve it.

With far more than one man's fair share of adversity to endure, Isaac
had but one consolation to support him, and that was of the dreariest
and most negative kind. He had no wife and children to increase his
anxieties and add to the bitterness of his various failures in life.
It might have been from mere insensibility, or it might have been from
generous unwillingness to involve another in his own unlucky destiny,
but the fact undoubtedly was, that he had arrived at the middle term of
life without marrying, and, what is much more remarkable, without once
exposing himself, from eighteen to eight-and-thirty, to the genial
imputation of ever having had a sweetheart.

When he was out of service he lived alone with his widowed mother.
Mrs. Scatchard was a woman above the average in her lowly stat