gentleman.

'When they're in a good humour,' interposed the dirty-faced man.

'And that's very true,' said the placid one.

'I repudiate that qualification,' said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts
were fast reverting to Emily Wardle. 'I repudiate it with disdain--with
indignation. Show me the man who says anything against women, as women,
and I boldly declare he is not a man.' And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar
from his mouth, and struck the table violently with his clenched fist.

'That's good sound argument,' said the placid man.

'Containing a position which I deny,' interrupted he of the dirty
countenance.

'And there's certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe
too, Sir,' said the placid gentleman.

'Your health, Sir,' said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an
approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.

Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.

'I always like to hear a good argument,'continued the bagman, 'a sharp
one, like this: it's very improving; but this little argument about
women brought to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine
tell, the recollection of which, just now, made me say there were rummer
things than women to be met with, sometimes.'

'I should like to hear that same story,' said the red-faced man with the
cigar.

'Should you?' was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke
with great vehemence.

'So should I,' said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time. He was
always anxious to increase his stock of experience.

'Should YOU? Well then, I'll tell it. No, I won't. I know you won't
believe it,' said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look
more roguish than ever. 'If you say it's true, of course I shall,' said
Mr. Tupman.

'Well, upon that understanding I'll tell you,' replied the traveller.
'Did you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson & Slum? But
it doesn't matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired
from business long since. It's eighty years ago, since the circumstance
happened to a traveller for that house, but he was a particular friend
of my uncle's; and my uncle told the story to me. It's a queer name; but
he used to call it

THE BAGMAN'S STORY

and he used to tell it, something in this way.

'One winter's evening, about five o'clock, just as it began to grow
dusk, a man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along
the road which leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction o