it be fair-like on Watts to saddle him with an old party
like you, who might be the death of him with general information. Would
it be fair to the 'ouse?' enquired Mr Chandler, with an air of candid
appeal.

'Mark me,' cried the old gentleman with spirit. 'It was kind in you to
bring me here for nothing, but it gives you no right to address me
in such terms. Here's a shilling for your trouble; and, if you do
not choose to set me down at the "Tregonwell Arms", I can find it for
myself.'

Chandler was surprised and a little startled; muttering something
apologetic, he returned the shilling, drove in silence through several
intricate lanes and small streets, drew up at length before the bright
windows of an inn, and called loudly for Mr Watts.

'Is that you, Jem?' cried a hearty voice from the stableyard. 'Come in
and warm yourself.'

'I only stopped here,' Mr Chandler explained, 'to let down an old gent
that wants food and lodging. Mind, I warn you agin him; he's worse nor a
temperance lecturer.'

Mr Finsbury dismounted with difficulty, for he was cramped with his long
drive, and the shaking he had received in the accident. The friendly Mr
Watts, in spite of the carter's scarcely agreeable introduction, treated
the old gentleman with the utmost courtesy, and led him into the back
parlour, where there was a big fire burning in the grate. Presently a
table was spread in the same room, and he was invited to seat himself
before a stewed fowl--somewhat the worse for having seen service
before--and a big pewter mug of ale from the tap.

He rose from supper a giant refreshed; and, changing his seat to one
nearer the fire, began to examine the other guests with an eye to the
delights of oratory. There were near a dozen present, all men, and (as
Joseph exulted to perceive) all working men. Often already had he seen
cause to bless that appetite for disconnected fact and rotatory argument
which is so marked a character of the mechanic. But even an audience of
working men has to be courted, and there was no man more deeply versed
in the necessary arts than Joseph Finsbury. He placed his glasses on his
nose, drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, and spread them before
him on a table. He crumpled them, he smoothed them out; now he skimmed
them over, apparently well pleased with their contents; now, with
tapping pencil and contracted brows, he seemed maturely to consider some
particular statement. A stealthy glance about the r