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THE ROGUE'S MARCH

didn’t interrupt our rub, as a more thoughtless person most certainly would have done. He is a well-bred young man, and I like the looks of him. Do you hear, sir? I like the looks of you; but what on earth’s the matter with your mouth?”

Tom hung his head and told his story. At its conclusion the little grey man insisted on shaking left hands with him.

“You’re the kind of young fellow I like to meet,” said he. “A runaway convict, of course?”

The question was terribly abrupt, but Tom told the truth.

“There, there, never mind!” cried the little grey man. “You’re not so singular in that respect as your sensitive imagination would appear to suggest. In fact, you are not the only one in the present circle; so you see that you may hold up your head again, and even trust us with further particulars. May I ask from whose service you have fled?”

Tom hesitated: if they should carry him back!

“You would rather not say!” exclaimed the little man. “Very natural, very natural; but what if I can guess? What if I said his name began with S, and considered that of his homestead hardly justified by the facts, save insomuch as every man’s dwelling is his Castle?”

Tom’s face convicted him. It was transfigured with amazement. The travellers exchanged significant glances, and proceeded to regard him with an interest obviously redoubled.

“How did you know?” he cried.

“I knew nothing. I only guessed.”

“But how?”