rich in
honour.

The love of justice was a passion with him. The oppressors of the poor
knew and feared him well. Injustice once proved before him, vengeance
followed sure. If the law would not help, he never hesitated to employ
lawlessness, of which he could always command a satisfactory supply.
Bumble might have the Board of Guardians at his back, Shylock legal
support for his pound of flesh; but sooner or later the dark night
brought punishment, a ducking in dock basin or canal, "Brutal Assault
Upon a Respected Resident" (according to the local papers), the
"miscreants" always making and keeping good their escape, for he was an
admirable organiser.

One night it seemed to him necessary that a child should go at once into
the Infirmary.

"It ain't no use my taking her now," explained the mother, "I'll only
get bullyragged for disturbing 'em. My old man was carried there three
months ago when he broke his leg, but they wouldn't take him in till the
morning."

"Oho! oho! oho!" sang Hal, taking the child up in his arms and putting
on his hat. "You follow me; we'll have some sport. Tally ho! tally
ho!" And away we went, Hal heading our procession through the streets,
shouting a rollicking song, the baby staring at him openmouthed.

"Now ring," cried Hal to the mother on our reaching the Workhouse gate.
"Ring modestly, as becomes the poor ringing at the gate of Charity." And
the bell tinkled faintly.

"Ring again!" cried Hal, drawing back into the shadow; and at last the
wicket opened.

"Oh, if you please, sir, my baby--"

"Blast your baby!" answered a husky voice, "what d'ye mean by coming
here this time of night?"

"Please, sir, I'm afraid it's dying, and the Doctor--"

The man was no sentimentalist, and to do him justice made no
hypocritical pretence of being one. He consigned the baby and its mother
and the doctor to Hell, and the wicket would have closed but for the
point of Hal's stick.

"Open the gate!" roared Hal. It was idle pretending not to hear Hal
anywhere within half a mile of him when he filled his lungs for a cry.
"Open it quick, you blackguard! You gross vat-load of potato spirit,
you--"

That the Governor should speak a language familiar to the governed was
held by the Romans, born rulers of men, essential to authority. This
theory Hal also maintained. His command of idiom understanded by his
people was one of his rods of power. In less time than it took the
trembling porter to loosen t