flat’s wipe as well. I’ll put it on for a brown!” And he spat blood on it for luck.
“My handkerchief,” said Tom, calmly, from the rear.
“Is that the flat?”
“That’s him,” said the pickpocket, laughing hysterically; but Tom’s grudge was not against the thief.
“Shame on you,” said he, “to rook that dying man and bring him to this! Are you Englishmen or what? You ought to be nursing him among you, instead of exciting him to his death.”
A roar of laughter greeted these words; at an instructive interval, however; and eight or ten eyes looked down.
“A proper flat!” cried one.
“Parson come to rake in the churchyard deserter!”
“The Ordinary’ll give him a job. What the blazes did he do to get here?”
Suggestions followed, beast capping beast with bestial humour. Tom’s eyes, filled with pity, never travelled from the pickpocket’s poor face. Suddenly a new voice chimed in, “You’re all wrong, boys; it’s Erichsen himself!”—
The handkerchief was marked, and one had read the name.
The effect of its announcement was something incredible: all rose, save the pickpocket, who was unable. A hushed awe fell, but it was the awe inspired by sudden contact with a master hand. Tom shrank before their vile, admiring looks; they admired him all the more; the tainted air hummed with compliments, condolences, criticisms and cross-questions. One or two said he deserved to die for a clumsy workman. A thick-set young fellow, with a sleek face and his hair in his
