should like to be."

"Suppose, after Dick Whittington's fashion, you succeeded to your
master's business, should you like to be a tanner?"

He paused--his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, resolutely,
"I would like to be anything that was honest and honourable. It's a
notion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his trade does not make
him--he makes his trade. That is--but I know I can't put the subject
clear, for I have not got it clear in my own head yet--I'm only a lad.
However, it all comes to this--that whether I like it or not, I'll
stick to the tanning as long as I can."

"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"--and I watched him as he
stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting bark-heap,
his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling--"Nevertheless, John,
it's my opinion that you might be anything you liked."

He laughed. "Questionable that--at least at present. Whatever I may
be, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works in
your father's tan-yard--John Halifax, and very much at your service,
Mr. Phineas Fletcher."

Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow
so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily
recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman." However,
that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like
many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence--Heaven
knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.

The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part
with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was.

"How do you mean?"

"Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?"

"Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and drinking.
Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road, where there's lots of
blackberries by way of pudding--which is grand! Supper, when I do get
it, I like best on this bark-heap, after the men are away, and the
tan-yard's clear. Your father lets me stay."

"And where is your lodging, then? Where do you sleep?"

He hesitated--coloured a little. "To tell the truth--anywhere I can.
Generally, here."

"What, out-of-doors?"

"Just so."

I was much shocked. To sleep out-of-doors seemed to me the very lowest
ebb of human misery: so degrading, too--like a common tramp or
vagabond, instead of a decent lad.

"John, how can you--why do you--do such a thing?