'My name is Sylvester,' was the reply of its owner, as he smiled confidently and assumed a pose of becoming humility and propitiation.
'What do you want?'
'Please, your honour, I want to go to Negapatam.'
A slight pause ensued, and the padre exclaimed:
'I've seen your face before.'
The statement was received with a start of surprise and an aggrieved refutation.
'No, sir; I've never been here before. I've never set foot in Trichinopoly before, please your honour.'
The chaplain regarded him with as much sternness as he was capable of assuming and said:
'A year ago I sent you from here to Erode.'
'No, sir, I assure your honour I have never been in the place before.'
'And six months before that I sent you to Madura.'
'No, sir.' 'But I did.' 'No, sir.' At this point the chaplain retired to his room to consult the vagrant notebook. He returned with it in his hand.
'There's your name and it occurs more than once. I remember perfectly well having a ticket bought for you each time and sending the peon to see that you got into the train.'
'No, sir. I've never been here before. Some other man using my name, only, sir.'
The injured innocence of the tone in which this was said was inimitable; but it was not convincing.
'Nonsense! You are not telling me the truth. I can't have anything to do with bad men who don't tell the truth.'
'No, sir, please, sir!'
'Go away; I have nothing for men like you.'
'No, sir!' was the melancholy reply as Sylvester sadly watched the padre's retreat to his study. There
