d the governor, 'e is awful
partickler about these here being done to-night. And we sent off
millions on 'em last week. My eye, wasn't it a treat lickin' up the
envellups!"

"Do you mean to say a lot of the circulars have been sent already?"

"'Undreds of grillions on 'em," replied the boy.

Of course it was no use after that delaying these; so Reginald finished
off his task, not a little vexed at the mistake, and determined to have
it put right without delay.

It was this cause of irritation, most likely, which prevented his
dwelling too critically on the substance of the circular so
affectionately dedicated to the poor country clergy. Beyond vaguely
wondering where the Corporation kept their "bankrupt" stock of clothing,
and how by the unaided light of nature they were to decide whether their
applicants were stout or lean, or tall or short, he dismissed the matter
from his mind for the time being, and made as short work as possible of
the remainder of the task.

Then he wrote a short line home, announcing his arrival in as cheerful
words as he could muster, and walked out to post it. The pavements were
thronged with a crowd of jostling men and women, returning home from the
day's work; but among them all the boy felt more lonely than had he been
the sole inhabitant of Liverpool. Nobody knew him, nobody looked at
him, nobody cared two straws about him. So he dropped his letter
dismally into the box, and turned back to Shy Street, where at least
there was one human being who knew his name and heeded his voice.

Master Love had made the most of his opportunities. He had lit a candle
and stuck it into the mouth of an ink-bottle, and by its friendly light
was already deep once more in the history of his hero.

"Say, what's yer name," said he, looking up as Reginald re-entered,
"this here chap" as scuttled a ship, and drowned twenty on 'em. _'E_ was
a cute 'un, and no error. He rigs hisself up as a carpenter, and takes
a tile off the ship's bottom just as the storm was a-coming on; and in
corse she flounders and all 'ands."

"And what became of him?" asked Reginald.

"Oh, in corse he stows hisself away in the boat with a lifebelt, and
gets washed ashore; and he kills a tiger for 'is breakfast, and--"

"It's a pity you waste your time over bosh like that," said Reginald,
not interested to hear the conclusion of the heroic Tim's adventures;
"if you're fond of reading, why don't you get something better?"