the
only one in the house who perceived the gnawing pangs over which the
stout old Spartan drew the decorous cloak.

Pity, blended with admiration, made me curious to learn how these absent
days, that brought night so disturbed, were consumed. I felt that, if I
could master the Captain's secret, I might win the right both to comfort
and to aid.

I resolved at length, after many conscientious scruples, to endeavor to
satisfy a curiosity excused by its motives.

Accordingly, one morning, after watching him from the house, I stole in
his track, and followed him at a distance.

And this was the outline of his day: he set off at first with a firm
stride, despite his lameness, his gaunt figure erect, the soldierly
chest well thrown out from the threadbare but speckless coat. First he
took his way towards the purlieus of Leicester Square; several times,
to and fro, did he pace the isthmus that leads from Piccadilly into
that reservoir of foreigners, and the lanes and courts that start thence
towards St. Martin's. After an hour or two so passed, the step became
more slow; and often the sleek, napless hat was lifted up, and the brow
wiped. At length he bent his way towards the two great theatres, paused
before the play-bills, as if deliberating seriously on the chances of
entertainment they severally proffered, wandered slowly through the
small streets that surround those temples of the Muse, and finally
emerged into the Strand. There he rested himself for an hour at a small
cook-shop; and as I passed the window and glanced within, I could see
him seated before the simple dinner, which he scarcely touched, and
poring over the advertisement columns of the "Times." The "Times"
finished, and a few morsels distastefully swallowed, the Captain put
down his shilling in silence, receiving his pence in exchange, and I
had just time to slip aside as he reappeared at the threshold. He looked
round as he lingered,--but I took care he should not detect me,--and
then struck off towards the more fashionable quarters of the town.
It was now the afternoon, and, though not yet the season, the streets
swarmed with life. As he came into Waterloo Place, a slight but muscular
figure buttoned up across the breast like his own cantered by on a
handsome bay horse; every eye was on that figure. Uncle Roland stopped
short, and lifted his hand to his hat; the rider touched his own with
his forefinger, and cantered on; Uncle Roland turned round and ga