tics of our day."

This again left Sam gravelled. He had a vague notion that the lady's
Ophelia must be some admired part of her anatomy, but contented himself
with touching his brow politely and muttering that he was Mrs.
Mortimer's to command. The lady, who appeared to be what Sam called to
himself a good sort, smiled down on him graciously, and hoped that she
and her husband might be favoured with his company at supper.

"It's very kind of _you_, ma'am," responded Sam; "but 'fact is I han't
knocked off work yet. 'Must go now and fetch out th' old hoss for a
trifle of haulage; an' when I get back I must clean meself an' shift for
night-school--me bein' due early there to fetch up leeway. You see," he
explained, "bein' on the move wi' the boats most o' my time, I don't get
the same chances as the other fellows. So when I hauls ashore, as we
call it, I 'ave to make up lost time."

"A student, I declare!" Mr. Mortimer saluted him. Rising from the steps
of the caravan, he rubbed a hand down his trouser-leg and extended it.
"Permit me to grasp, sir, the horny palm of self-improvement. A scholar
in humble life! and--as your delicacy in this small matter of the
saucepan sufficiently attests--one of Nature's gentlemen to boot!
I prophesy that you will go far, Mr. Bossom. May I inquire what books
you thumb?"

"Thumb?" Sam, his hard hand released, stared at it a moment perplexed.
"That ain't the _method_, sir; not at our school. But I'm gettin'
along, and the book is called Lord Macaulay."

"What? Macaulay's _Essays?_"

"It's called _Lays_, sir--Lord Macaulay's _Lays_. The rest of the class
chose it, an' I didn' like to cry off, though I 'd not a-flown so high
as a lord myself--not to start with."

"The _Lays of Ancient Rome?_ My dear Bossom--my dear Smiles--you'll
allow me to dub you Smiles? _On Self Help_, you know. I like to call
my friends by these playful sobriquets, and friends we are going to be,
you and I. My dear fellow, I used to know 'em by heart--"

'Lars Porsena of Clusium
By the nine gods he swore--'

"--Is that the ticket, hey?"

Mr. Mortimer clapped him on the shoulder. "Dang it!" breathed Sam,
"how small the world is!"

"Smiles, we must be friends. Even if, for a paltry trifle of seven
pounds fifteen and six, I am condemned by your master (whom you will
excuse my terming a miscreant) to eke out the dregs of my worthless
existence in this infernal yard--no, my loved Arabella