"Oh!" chimed in Bobbie’s clear voice, "my uncle isn't an outsider, sir. He has the most clinking lab. that there ever could be, and we have been there all the morning. If it hadn't been for the things he gave me we shouldn't have been able to do anything. He is the kindest man in the world, really. Except father, of course," he added thoughtfully, and then, in sudden confusion, "and—oh, I beg your pardon—perhaps yourself, sir!"
I was thankful for the mighty roar of laughter from Sir Walter as he disclaimed any chance in the competition. I felt the ass then; but not the middle-aged solitary ass.
••••••
There is a deaf old lady, a Miss Mitterdrop, who lives in the village here. She hears nothing and talks incessantly.
"They tell me," she said, stopping me in the street yesterday, "that you used to make your nephew stand all day in a pit of cold water at the bottom of your garden, and that he found a lot of valuable minerals there." And she peered at me from under her ancient bonnet like an inquisitorial fowl.
"Madam," I replied, as politely as one could, "the only pit at the bottom of my garden is a melon pit."
She looked at me shrewdly and nodded twice.
"Yes, on the Day of Judgment," she said, and hobbled on.
I relate the trifling incident to show what I may expect. Of the fantastic contortion of her next version of the affair and of our conversation, the reader can form as accurate a forecast as I can myself. To set the matter at rest I have therefore thought it well to draw up this plain, unvarnished record.
I am again taking in the Trafalgar Magazine, and each day I look down the front page of the Telegraph before
