n-the-Hill.

After a glance at my property, the stranger turned to me and exclaimed:
"When you have travelled as much as I have, young sir, you will
know that, the less the luggage, the greater the ease." Youth,
I think, as a rule resents overtures from strangers, but there
was something in my fellow-traveller's address so pleasant as to
disarm resentment. His voice, his smile, his appearance, were alike
prepossessing. He drew from his pocket the _Daily News_, in those
days a famous organ for foreign intelligence, and, as he composed
himself to read, I had a full opportunity of studying his appearance.
He seemed to be somewhere between thirty and forty, of the middle
height, lean and sinewy, and, as his jump into the train had shown,
as lissom as a cat. His skin was so much tanned that it was difficult
to guess his natural complexion; but his closely cropped hair was
jet-black, and his clean-shaven face showed the roots of a very
dark beard. In those days it was fashionable to wear one's hair
rather long, and to cultivate whiskers and a moustache. Priests
and actors were the only people who shaved clean, and I decided
in my mind that my friend was an actor. Presently he laid down his
paper, and, turning to me with that grave courtesy which when one
is very young one appreciates, he said: "I hope, sir, that my abrupt
entry did not disturb you. I had a rush for it, and nearly lost my
train as it was. And I hope what I said about luggage did not seem
impertinent. I was only thinking that, if I had been obliged to look
after portmanteaus, I should probably still be on the platform at
Carlisle." I hastened to say, with my best air, that I had not been
the least offended, and rather apologized for my own encumbrances
by saying that I was going South for three months, and had to take
all my possessions with me. I am not sure that I was pleased when
my friend said: "Ah, yes; the end of the vacation. You are returning
to college at Harrow, I see." It was humiliating to confess that
Harrow was a school, and I a schoolboy; but my friend took it with
great composure. Perfectly, he said; it was his error. He should
have said "school," not "college." He had a great admiration for
the English Public Schools. It was his misfortune to have been
educated abroad. A French lycee, or a German gymnasium, was not
such a pleasant place as Eton or Harrow. This was exactly the best
way of starting a conversation, and, my schoolboy reserve being