t on the river.

The evenings in the taproom at "The Goose" were among the most enjoyable
periods of the lad's London existence. A select party usually gathered
there, consisting chiefly of a young man who never apparently had had
anything to do in his life. His name was Harry Highlow, a clever sort of
wild young scapegrace who played well at "shove-ha'penny," and sang a
good comic song. Another of the party was a youth who earned a
precarious livelihood by carrying two boards on his shoulders advertising
a great pickle, or a great singer, as the case might be. Another of the
company was a young man who was either a discharged or a retired groom; I
should presume the former, as he complained bitterly that the authorities
at Scotland Yard would not grant him a licence to drive a cab. He
appeared to be a striking instance of how every kind of patronage in this
country is distributed by favouritism. There were several others, all
equally candidates for remunerative situations, but equally unfortunate
in obtaining them: proving conclusively that life is indeed a lottery in
which there may be a few prizes, usually going, by the caprice of
Fortune, to the undeserving, while the blanks went indiscriminately to
all the rest.

Bound together by the sympathy which a common misfortune engenders, these
young men were happy in the pursuit of their innocent amusements at "The
Goose." And while, at first, they were a little inclined to chaff the
rustic youth on account of his apparent simplicity, they soon learned to
respect him on account of his exceedingly good temper and his willingness
to fall in with the general views of the company on all occasions. They
learnt all about Joe's business in London, and it was a common greeting
when they met in the evening to ask "how the pig was?" And they would
enquire what the Lord Chancellor thought about the case, and whether it
wouldn't be as well to grease the pig's tail and have a pig-hunt. To all
which jocular observations Joe would reply with excellent temper and
sometimes with no inappropriate wit. And then they said they would like
to see Joe tackle Mr. Orkins, and believed he would shut him up. But
chaff never roused his temper, and he laughed at the case as much as any
man there. Fine tales he would have to tell when he got back to
Yokelton; and pleasant, no doubt, would be in after-life, his
recollections of the evenings at "The Goose."

As a great general surveys the