ies. The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame
of the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on
his varied pursuits--much in the same state of mind, I should fancy,
as a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the moss-troopers, when his
hold might be summoned or his cattle carried off at any minute of night
or day.

"Open, Martin, old boy; it's only I, Tom Brown."

"Oh, very well; stop a moment." One bolt went back. "You're sure East
isn't there?"

"No, no; hang it, open." Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he
entered the den.

Den indeed it was--about five feet six inches long by five wide, and
seven feet high. About six tattered school-books, and a few chemical
books, Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Bewick, the
latter in much better preservation, occupied the top shelves. The other
shelves, where they had not been cut away and used by the owner for
other purposes, were fitted up for the abiding-places of birds, beasts,
and reptiles. There was no attempt at carpet or curtain. The table was
entirely occupied by the great work of Martin, the electric machine,
which was covered carefully with the remains of his table-cloth. The
jackdaw cage occupied one wall; and the other was adorned by a small
hatchet, a pair of climbing irons, and his tin candle-box, in which he
was for the time being endeavouring to raise a hopeful young family of
field-mice. As nothing should be let to lie useless, it was well that
the candle-box was thus occupied, for candles Martin never had. A pound
was issued to him weekly, as to the other boys; but as candles were
available capital, and easily exchangeable for birds' eggs or young
birds, Martin's pound invariably found its way in a few hours to
Howlett's the bird-fancier's, in the Bilton road, who would give a
hawk's or nightingale's egg or young linnet in exchange. Martin's
ingenuity was therefore for ever on the rack to supply himself with
a light. Just now he had hit upon a grand invention, and the den was
lighted by a flaring cotton wick issuing from a ginger-beer bottle full
of some doleful composition. When light altogether failed him, Martin
would loaf about by the fires in the passages or hall, after the manner
of Diggs, and try to do his verses or learn his lines by the firelight.

"Well, old boy, you haven't got any sweeter in the den this half. How
that stuff in the bottle stinks! Never mind; I ain't going to