ion.

"Well, then, as we have still some hours of night, let us now obtain
some rest. In the morning, when the sun hath introduced us to each
other, I may then judge from your countenances whether it is likely that
we may be better acquainted. Night is the time for repose, as Quintus
Curtius says, `_Custos, bos, fur atque sacerdos_.' Sleep was made for
all--my friends, good night."

PART ONE, CHAPTER NINE.

IN WHICH THE ADVENTURES IN THE WAGGON ARE CONTINUED, AND WE BECOME MORE
PUZZLED WITH OUR NEW COMPANIONS--WE LEAVE OFF TALKING LATIN, AND ENTER
INTO AN ENGAGEMENT.

Timothy and I took his advice, and were soon fast asleep.

I was awakened the next morning by feeling a hand in my trowser's
pocket. I seized it, and held it fast.

"Now just let go my hand, will you?" cried a lachrymal voice.

I jumped up--it was broad daylight, and looked at the human frame to
which the hand was an appendix. It was a very spare, awkwardly-built
form of a young man, apparently about twenty years old, but without the
least sign of manhood on his chin. His face was cadaverous, with large
goggling eyes, high cheek bones, hair long and ragged, reminding me of a
rat's nest, thin lips, and ears large almost as an elephant's. A more
woe-begone wretch in appearance I never beheld, and I continued to look
at him with surprise. He repeated his words with an idiotical
expression, "Just let go my hand, can't you?"

"What business had your hand in my pocket?" replied I, angrily.

"I was feeling for my pocket handkerchief," replied the young man. "I
always keeps it in my breeches' pocket."

"But not in your neighbour's, I presume?"

"My neighbour's!" replied he, with a vacant stare. "Well, so it is, I
see now--I thought it was my own."

I released his hand; he immediately put it into his own pocket, and drew
out his handkerchief, if the rag deserved the appellation.

"There," said he, "I told you I put it in that pocket--I always do."

"And pray who are you?" said I, as I looked at his dress, which was a
pair of loose white Turkish trowsers, and an old spangled jacket.

"Me! why, I'm the fool."

"More knave than fool, I expect," replied I, still much puzzled with his
strange appearance and dress.

"Nay, there you mistake," said the voice of last night. "He is not only
a fool by profession, but one by nature. It is a half-witted creature,
who serves me when I would attract the people. Strange, in this world,
that wi