h for a horse had anything to do
with this revenge, and the notion haunted him in the intervals of his
morning's shopping.

But how to lay out his sovereign? That was the first question.
George, who within ten minutes had settled his own problem by
purchasing a doubtful fox-terrier of the Boots of the hotel, saw no
difficulty. The Boots had another pup for sale--one of the same
litter.

"But I want something for mother, and the others--and Honoria."

"Botheration! I'd forgotten Honoria, and now the money's gone!
Never mind; she can have my pup."

"Oh!" said Taffy ruefully. "Then she won't think much of my
present."

"Yes, she will. Suppose you buy a collar for him--you can get one
for five shillings."

They found a saddler's and chose the dog-collar which came to four
shillings; and for eighteenpence the shopman agreed to have
"_Honoria from Taffy_," engraved on it within an hour. Humility's
present was chosen with surprising ease--a large, framed photograph
of the Bishop of Exeter; price, six shillings.

"I don't suppose," objected George, "your mother cares much for the
Bishop of Exeter."

"Oh, yes, she does," said Taffy; "he's coming to confirm us next
spring. Besides," he added, with one of those flashes of wisdom
which surely he derived from her, "mother won't care what it is, so
long as she's remembered. And it costs more than the collar."

This left him with eight-and-sixpence; and for three-and-sixpence he
bought a work-box for his grandmother, with a view of Plymouth Hoe on
the lid. But now came the crux. What should he get for his father?

"It must be a book," George suggested.

"But what kind of a book? He has so many."

"Something in Latin."

The bookseller's window was filled with yellow-backed novels and
toy-books, which obviously would not do. So they marched in and
demanded a book suitable for a clergyman who had a good many books
already--"a middle-aged clergyman," George added.

"You can't go far wrong with this," suggested the bookseller,
producing Crockford's "Clerical Directory" for the current year.
But this was too expensive; "and," said Taffy, "I think he would
rather have something in Latin." The bookseller rubbed his chin,
went to his shelves, and took down a small _De Imitatione Christi_,
bound in limp calf. "You can't go far wrong with this, either," he
assured them. So Taffy paid down his money.

Just as the boys reached the hotel, Sir Harry drove up in a