that worthy.

"I wanted you to wake me. Come, have a nip."

"Don't mind if I do, boss."

"What's your name?"

"Bill Adams. Here's luck, boss."

"Say, Bill, can you hold your tongue?"

"All depends."

"Here's a sovereign," said Wyck, handing him one.

"I can hold it as tight as wax, boss."

"Then listen. I got into a bit of a mess over a girl, and there are some
chaps after me. They came by the express last night, and if I'm here
they'll find me."

"Then you'd better get out of here."

"That's just what I want to do. How is it to be done? See I have shaved
my moustache and altered my clothes."

"What did yer cut them for?"

"I want to be a tramp."

"Let me fix yer up. Just yer stay here," said Bill, disappearing to
return a few minutes later with a swag, which he laid on the floor and
opened.

"Now then, just you put on these breeches, shirt and boots."

Five minutes later Wyck did not recognise himself, as he looked in the
glass.

"Now then, boss, if you're smart, there's a goods train leaves for the
West at six, you can catch that."

"Will you take charge of these things?" asked Wyck, strapping up his
portmanteau, flurried with the success of his scheme.

"Yes, I'll watch 'em for you."

"Which way do I go?"

"This way," said Bill, leading him to a back entrance, opening on a lane
leading to Ruthven Street.

"Here's another for you, Bill, and if you look after my things I'll give
you a couple more when I come back," said Wyck, handing him another
sovereign.

"Right you are, boss!" and as he closed the door upon him, a grin spread
over his face, and he said to himself:

"Two yellow boys for old Joe's swag, eh? Wonder what old Joe'll say when
he comes to look for 'em?"

Wyck reached the station safely, and asking how far the train went, was
told "Roma."

"First, Rome," said he to the porter, without thinking.

"Roma, you mean, boss. Besides there ain't no first class on a goods
train," said the porter, with a grin.

"You know what I mean," replied Wyck, annoyed.

"All right, here you are, boss," he answered, handing him a ticket, and
noting his white hands and the chink of gold in his pocket.

"Hullo, mate! how far are you going?" asked a genuine tramp, as he
joined him in the van.

"I beg your pardon," said Wyck, forgetting his character and disgusted
with the fellow's familiarity.

"Hoity toity! here's a joke," said the old tramp, much to the porter's
amusement, as the trai