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when he’d dror out his ‘ed again I’d know it was over for that night. What was it like, sir? Well, I never heard but one thing that seemed to hit it off. I happened to be playing about in the Close, and there was two of the Canons met and said “Good morning” one to another. “Sleep well last night?” says one—it was Mr. Henslow that one, and Mr. Lyall was the other—”Can’t say I did,” says Mr. Lyall, “rather too much of Isaiah 34. 14 for me.” “34. 14,” says Mr. Henslow, “what’s that?” “You call yourself a Bible reader!” says Mr. Lyall. (Mr. Henslow, you must know, he was one of what used to be termed Simeon’s lot—pretty much what we should call the Evangelical party.) “You go and look it up.” I wanted to know what he was getting at myself, and so off I ran home and got out my own Bible, and there it was: “the satyr shall cry to his fellow.” Well, I thought, is that what we’ve been listening to these past nights? and I tell you it made me look over my shoulder a time or two. Of course I’d asked my father and mother about what it could be before that, but they both said it was most likely cats: but they spoke very short, and I could see they was troubled. My word! that was a noise—‘ungry-like, as