illings, it doesn't make any difference
how many times a year it is."

"Well, well, I think I must write to Sir James Hogg about you. He was
telling me to-night--"

"If he sent me the money, I'd return it to him. I'm not a beggar, Mr.
Dale."

"But are you not very proud, Alban?"

"Would you let anybody give you five shillings--for yourself, Mr. Dale?"

"That would depend how he offered it. In the plate I should certainly
consider it acceptable."

"Yes, but sent to you in a letter because you were hard up, you know.
I'm certain you wouldn't. No decent fellow would. When I can afford to
play cricket, I'll play it. Good night, Mr. Dale. I'm not going back
just now."

The curate shook his head protestingly.

"Do you know it is twelve o'clock, Alban?"

"Just the time the fun begins--in the world--over there, sir."

He looked up at the Western sky aglow with that crimson haze which
stands for the zenith of London's night. The Reverend "Jimmy" Dale had
abandoned long ago the idea of understanding Alban Kennedy. "He will
either die in a lunatic asylum or make his fortune," he said to
himself--and all subsequent happenings did not alter this dogged
opinion. The fellow was either a lunatic or an original. "Jimmy" Dale,
who had rowed in the Trinity second boat, did not wholly appreciate
either species.

"What is the world to you, Alban--is not sleep better?"

"In a garret, sir, where you cannot breathe?"

"Oh, come, we must all be a little patient in adversity. I saw Mr.
Browning at the works yesterday. He tells me that the firm is very
pleased with you--you'll get a rise before long, Alban."

"Half a crown for being good. Enough to sole my boots. When I have shops
of my own, I'll let the men live to begin with, sir. The shareholders
can come afterwards."

"It would never do to preach that at a city dinner."

"Ah, sir, what's preached at a city dinner and what's true in Thrawl
Street, Whitechapel, don't ride a tandem together. Ask a hungry man
whether he'll have his mutton boiled or roast, and he'll tell you he
doesn't care a damn. It's just the same with me--whether I sleep in a
cellar or a garret, what's the odds? I'll be going on now, sir. You must
feel tired after so much eating."

He turned, but not rudely, and pushing his way adroitly through the
throng about the station disappeared in a moment. The curate shook his
head and resumed his way moodily eastward, wondering if his momentary
lapse from the st