t attempt to deny it."

"What's your name, sir," asked my Lord.

"Butler," was the brief reply.

"The son of--no, not son--but relative of Sir Omerod's?" asked his
Lordship again.

"His nephew."

"Why, Sir Harry Elphinstone has asked me for something for you. I don't
see what I can do for you. It would be an admirable thing to have
some one to kick the porters; but we have n't thought of such an
appointment,--eh, Baynes? Willis, the very first; most impudent dog! We
want a messenger for Bucharest, Brand, don't we?"

"No, my Lord; you filled it this morning,--gave it to Mr. Beed."

"Cancel Beed, then, and appoint Butler."

"Mr. Beed has gone, my Lord,--started with the Vienna bag."

"Make Butler supernumerary."

"There are four already, my Lord."

"I don't care if there were forty, Mr. Brand! Go and pass your
examination, young gentleman, and thank Sir Harry Elphinstone, for this
nomination is at his request. I am only sorry you didn't kick Willis."
And with this parting speech he turned away, and hopped downstairs to
his brougham, with the light step and jaunty air of a man of thirty.

Scarcely was the door closed, when Baynes and Brand retired into a
window recess, conversing in lowest whispers and with much head-shaking.
To what a frightful condition the country must come--any country must
come--when administered by men of such levity, who make a sport of its
interests, and a practical joke of its patronage--was the theme over
which they now mourned in common.

"Are you going to make a minute of this appointment, Brand?" asked
Baynes. "I declare I 'd not do it."

The other pursed up his lips and leaned his head to one side, as though
to imply that such a course would be a bold one.

"Will you put his name on your list?"

"I don't know," muttered the other. "I suspect we can do it better.
Where have you been educated, Mr. Butler?"

"At home, principally."

"Never at any public school?"

"Never, except you call a village school a public one."

Brand's eyes glistened, and Baynes's returned the sparkle.

"Are you a proficient in French?"

"Far from it. I could spell out a fable, or a page of 'Telemachus,' and
even that would push me hard."

"Do you write a good hand?"

"It is legible, but it's no beauty."

"And your arithmetic?"

"Pretty much like my French,--the less said about it the better."

"I think that will do, Brand," whispered Baynes.

The other nodded, and muttered, "Of cours