uck of the Shaws
dramaticals.

"Come hither, ye unhanged whelp," said Jekyl, "and tell me if you know
the old gentleman that passed down the walk just now--yonder he is,
still in sight."

"It is the Naboab," said the boy; "I could swear to his back among all
the backs at the Waal, your honour."

"What do you call a Nabob, you varlet?"

"A Naboab--a Naboab?" answered the scout; "odd, I believe it is ane
comes frae foreign parts, with mair siller than his pouches can haud,
and spills it a' through the country--they are as yellow as orangers,
and maun hae a' thing their ain gate."

"And what is this Naboab's name, as you call him?" demanded Jekyl.

"His name is Touchwood," said his informer; "ye may see him at the Waal
every morning."

"I have not seen him at the ordinary."

"Na, na," answered the boy; "he is a queer auld cull, he disna frequent
wi' other folk, but lives upby at the Cleikum.--He gave me half-a-crown
yince, and forbade me to play it awa' at pitch and toss."

"And you disobeyed him, of course?"

"Na, I didna dis-obeyed him--I played it awa' at
neevie-neevie-nick-nack."

"Well, there is sixpence for thee; lose it to the devil in any way thou
think'st proper."

So saying he gave the little galopin his donative, and a slight rap on
the pate at the same time, which sent him scouring from his presence. He
himself hastened to Lord Etherington's apartments, and, as luck would
have it, found the Earl alone.

FOOTNOTES:

[II-6] Forgive me, sir, I was bred in the Imperial service, and must smoke
a little.

[II-7] Smoke as much as you please; I have got my pipe, too.--See what a
beautiful head!

CHAPTER XII.

DISCUSSION.

I will converse with iron-witted fools
And unrespective boys--none are for me
That look into me with suspicious eyes.

_Richard III._

"How now, Jekyl!" said Lord Etherington, eagerly; "what news from the
enemy?--Have you seen him?"

"I have," replied Jekyl.

"And in what humour did you find him?--in none that was very favourable,
I dare say, for you have a baffled and perplexed look, that confesses a
losing game--I have often warned you how your hang-dog look betrays you
at brag--And then, when you would fain brush up your courage, and put a
good face on a bad game, your bold looks always remind me of a standard
hoisted only half-mast high, and betraying melancholy and dejection,
instead of triumph and defiance."

"I am only holding the cards for