fashionable surroundings than his eccentric costume.

The upper part of his person was habited in a rough shooting-jacket,
considerably the worse for wear, such as a farmer or gamekeeper might
have donned in the country, away from the busy haunts of men, when out
in the coverts or engaged thinning the preserves; while his lower
extremities rejoiced in a yet shabbier pair of trousers, whose shortness
for their wearer did not tend to enhance their artistic effect.

To complete the picture, his bushy head of iron-grey hair was surmounted
by an old beaver hat that had once been white, but which inexorable Time
had mellowed in tone, and whose nap, having been brushed up the wrong
way, against the grain, frizzed out around its circumference like a
furze bush, making it resemble the "fretful porcupine" spoken of by the
immortal Shakespeare.

His whole appearance was altogether unique for a West-end thoroughfare
in the height of the season; and, the more especially, too, at that time
of day, when dandies of the first water were sauntering listlessly along
the shady side of the pavement ogling the gorgeously-attired ladies who
rolled by in their stately barouches drawn by prancing horses that must
have cost fortunes, and on whose boxes sat stately coachmen and
immaculate footmen clad in liveries beyond price, "Solomon in all his
glory" not approaching their radiant magnificence!

Emerging as he did, however, from the Reform Club, the old gentleman's
unconventional "rig-out" bore testimony to the incontrovertible fact
that, no matter how "advanced" his principles may have become from the
teachings of Cobden, and the example of Peel, he had not allowed his
political convictions to revolutionise his original ideas on the subject
of dress.

Nor was this the only peculiarity noticeable about the queer-looking old
fellow.

He was coming down the steps of the club-house, while Dad and I looked
at him, so slowly that his dilatory rate of progression conveyed the
impression that he was either a martyr to corns or suffering from a
recent attack of the gout; feeling his way carefully with one foot first
before bringing along its fellow, prior to adventuring the next step,
just as my baby sister, a little toddlekin of six, used to go up and
downstairs.

This, of course, was not so remarkable in itself, but as he descended
thus, crab-fashion, to the level of the pavement where Dad and I stood
observing him, my eyes grew wide with wo