orch of the house sat
Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress, with his hat upon his head, his
pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before him, the monarch of all he
surveyed. Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poultry
were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees hummed from their
hives in the garden; the cattle lowed in the rich meadow: while the
crammed barns and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest.

The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously towards the house.
The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but
was immediately silenced by his master, who, taking his pipe from his
mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect the address of this equivocal
personage. The stranger eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his
dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon
his own threadbare and starveling condition, and the scanty bundle which
he held in his hand; then giving his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make
it meet his receding waistband; and casting another look, half sad, half
humorous at the sturdy yeoman, "I suppose," said he, "Mr. Tibbets, you
have forgot old times and old playmates?"

The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowledged that he
had no recollection of him.

[Illustration: "Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"--PAGE 189.]

"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger; "everybody seems to
have forgotten poor Slingsby?"

"Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"

"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his head.

Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling; thrust out his hand,
gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other hand
on a bench, "Sit down there," cried he, "Tom Slingsby!"

A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby was regaled
with the best cheer that the farm-house afforded; for he was hungry as
well as wayworn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedestrian. The
early playmates then talked over their subsequent lives and adventures.
Jack had but little to relate, and was never good at a long story. A
prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narrative; it
is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world, that are the true
heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the paternal farm, followed the same
plough that his forefathers had driven, and had waxed richer and richer
as he grew older. As to Tom Slingsby, he