"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. You're a friend of the young man?" "If you mean did I know him before he became ill, no. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it. She prevaricated. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. I think not. " "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights.
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