ads
his morning's letters; and at breakfast-time comes that inevitable
Parson Sampson, with eager looks and servile smiles, to wait on his
patron. The parson would have returned yesterday according to mutual
agreement, but some jolly fellows kept him to dinner at the St. Alban's,
and, faith, they made a night of it.

"Oh, Parson!" groans Harry, "'twas the worst night you ever made in your
life! Look here, sir!"

"Here is a broken envelope with the words, 'Much good may it do you,'
written within," says the chaplain, glancing at the paper.

"Look on the outside, sir!" cries Mr. Warrington. "The paper was
directed to you." The poor chaplain's countenance exhibited great alarm.
"Has some one broke it open, sir?" he asks.

"Some one, yes. I broke it open, Sampson. Had you come here as you
proposed yesterday afternoon, you would have found that envelope full of
bank-notes. As it is, they were all dropped at the infernal macco-table
last night."

"What, all?" says Sampson.

"Yes, all, with all the money I brought away from the city, and all the
ready money I have left in the world. In the afternoon I played piquet
with my cous--with a gentleman at White's--and he eased me of all the
money I had about me. Remembering that there was still some money left
here, unless you had fetched it, I came home and carried it back and
left it at the macco-table, with every shilling besides that belongs to
me--and--great heaven, Sampson, what's the matter, man?"

"It's my luck, it's my usual luck," cries out the unfortunate chaplain,
and fairly burst into tears.

"What! You are not whimpering like a baby at the loss of a loan of a
couple of hundred pounds?" cries out Mr. Warrington, very fierce and
angry. "Leave the room, Gumbo! Confound you! why are you always poking
your woolly head in at that door!"

"Some one below wants to see master with a little bill," says Mr. Gumbo.

"Tell him to go to Jericho!" roars out Mr. Warrington. "Let me see
nobody! I am not at home, sir, at this hour of the morning!"

A murmur or two, a scuffle is heard on the landing-place, and silence
finally ensues. Mr. Warrington's scorn and anger are not diminished by
this altercation. He turns round savagely upon unhappy Sampson, who sits
with his head buried in his breast.

"Hadn't you better take a bumper of brandy to keep your spirits up, Mr.
Sampson?" he asks. "Hang it, man! don't be snivelling like a woman!"

"Oh, it's not me!" says Sampson, tossi