e men,
gazing round him.

One of the others admitted that there certainly had been wonderful
changes, and expressed a fear that if the change in himself was as
great, his old pals wouldn't know him.

"Hows'ever," observed he who had spoken first, "they won't see such a
difference as they would have seen if we'd got the whole fourteen. Good
luck to the ticket-of-leave system, say I."

The others laughed at this, and one of them suggested that they should
enter the public-house and have a glass of grog in memory of old times.
Three of the men at once agreed to this proposal, and said that as it
would not be long before they were in the stone jug again it behoved
them to make the most of their freedom while it lasted. The man with
white hair, however, objected, and it was not until his companions had
chaffed and rallied him a good deal that he consented to enter the
house, observing, as he followed them slowly, that he had not tasted a
drop for seven years.

"Well, well," replied one of the others, "it don't matter; you'll relish
it all the more now, old feller. It'll go down like oil, an' call up
the memory of old times--"

"The memory of old times!" cried the white-haired man, stopping short,
with a sudden blaze of ferocity which amazed his companions.

He stood glaring at them for a few moments, with his hands tightly
clenched; then, without uttering another word, he turned round and
rushed from the house.

"Mad!" exclaimed one of the other three, looking at his companions when
they had recovered from their surprise, "mad as a March hare.
Hows'ever, that don't consarn us. Come along, my hearties.--Hallo!
landlord, fetch drink here--your best, and plenty of it. Now, boys,
fill up and I'll give 'ee a toast."

Saying this the man filled his glass, the others followed his example--
the toast was given and drunk--more toasts were given and drunk--the
three men returned to their drink and their old ways, and haunts and
comrades, as the sow returns to her wallowing in the mire.

Meanwhile the white-haired man wandered away as if he had no settled
purpose. Day after day he moved on through towns and villages and
fields, offering to work, but seldom being employed, begging his bread
from door to door, but carefully avoiding the taverns; sleeping where he
could, or where he was permitted--sometimes in the barn of a kindly
farmer, sometimes under a hay-stack, not unfrequently under a hedge--
until at last he foun