an anaxandron--a King of Men. The history of his
feat spread in ten minutes from one end of midnight London to the other:
from the policeman in Waterloo Place to--everywhere. Never was such a
stir; the fall of Sebastopol--dear me! I can remember it, look at the
flight of time--was nothing to it. They would have chaired him, _feted_
him, got a band to play him about the place, literally crowned him with
laurel. Ave, Caesar! Evoe! Bacchus! But they could not find him.

Raleigh was off with Freddie, who had been in at the death, and was well
"blooded." Hansom to Paddington in the small hours; creep, creep, creep,
through the raw morning mist, puff, whistle, broad gauge, and they had
vanished.

Raleigh was a man of his age; he lost not a moment; having got the
glory, the next thing was to elude the responsibility; and, in short, he
slipped out of sight till the hue-and-cry was over, and the excitement
of the campaign had subsided.

In case anyone should suppose I approve of midnight battle, I may as
well label the account at once: "This is a goak."

I do _not_ approve of brawls at the bar, but I have set myself the task
to describe a bit of human life exactly as it really is, and I can
assure you as a honest fact that Raleigh by that lucky knock became a
very great man indeed among people as they really are. People as they
really are, are not all Greek scholars.

As I don't wish you to look down upon poor Raleigh too much because he
smoked a cutty, and hit a fellow twice as big as himself, and lent his
money, and made bets, and drank whiskey, and was altogether wicked, I
may as well tell you something in his favour: He was a hero to his
valet.

"No man is a hero to his valet," says the proverb, not even Napoleon,
Disraeli, or Solomon.

But Raleigh _was_ a hero to his valet.

He was not only a hero to Nobbs the valet; he had perfectly fascinated
him. The instant he was off duty Nobbs began to be a Raleigh to himself.
He put on a coat cut in the Raleigh careless style; in fact, he dressed
himself Raleigh all over. His private hat was exactly like Raleigh's; so
was his necktie, the same colour, shape, and bought at the same shop; so
were his boots. He kept a sovereign loose in his waistcoat pocket,
because that was where Raleigh carried his handy gold. He smoked a
cutty-pipe, and drank endless whiskies--just like Raleigh, "the very
ticket"--he had his betting-book, and his telegrams, and his money on
"hosses," and hi