rd chap, or I'd make my fortune
with the like of what's here."

"Open your pack, Gubblum," said one of the fellows, Geordie Moore,
prompted by sundry prods from the elbow of a little damsel by his side.

The "straightforward chap" made a deprecatory gesture, and then yielded
obligingly. While loosening the straps he resumed his discourse on his
own general ignorance of business tactics, his ruinous honesty, and
demoralizing sense of honor.

"I'm not cute enough, that's my fault. I know the way to my mouth with a
spoonful of poddish, and that's all. If I go further in the dark, I'm
lost."

Gubblum opened his pack and drew forth a red and green shawl of a
hideous pattern.

"Now, just to give you a sample. Here's a nice neat shawl that I never
had no more nor two of. Well, I actually sold the fellow of that shawl
for seven-and-sixpence."

The look of amazement at his own shortcomings which sat on the
child-like face of the peddler was answered by the expression of mock
surprise in the face of Paul Ritson, who came up at the moment, took the
shawl from Gubblum's outstretched arms, and said in a hushed whisper:

"No, did you now?"

Geordie Moore thereupon dived into his pocket, and brought out three
half-crowns.

"Here's for you, Gubblum; let's have it."

"'Od bless me!" cried the elderly cynic, "but that Gubblum will never
mak' his plack a bawbee."

And Grey Graham, having disposed of the affairs of the nation and
witnessed Geordie snap at the peddler's bait, cried out in a bitter
laugh:

"'There's little wit within his powe
That lights a candle at the lowe.'"

Just then a tumult arose in the vicinity of the bar. The two cronies
were at open war.

"Deuce take it! I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek
pocket, and where are they now?"

"'Od dang thee! what should I know about your brass? You're kicking up a
stour to waken a corp!"

"I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, I tell
thee!"

"What's that to me, thou poor shaffles? You're as drunk as muck. Do you
think I've taken your brass? You've got a wrong pig by the lug if you
reckon to come ower me!"

"They were in my reet-hand breek pocket, I'll swear on it!"

"What a fratchin'--try your left-hand breek pocket."

The russet-faced plowman thrust his hand where directed and instantly a
comical smile of mingled joy and shame overspread his countenance. There
was a gurgling laugh, through which the voice of the p