him, and he pushed on to be abreast with him and have a little talk.
"Whom have I the honour of riding with at night?" asked the moorman.
"I'm the new curate," said the convict, "going round on my pastoral duties."
"Oh, indeed, without saddle and bridle?"
"I was called up to a dying person. My groom was away. For souls one must do much."
"Indeed, and your clothes don't seem to fit you," observed the moorman.
Now the doctor was a fat man, and the man who wore his clothes was lean.
"My duties are wearing to the carnal man," said the rider.
"And the horse. By ginger! it's the doctor's," exclaimed the moorman.
The convict kicked the flanks of his steed, and away he bounded. The hill had been surmounted. The moorman gave chase.
Then he recollected that the doctor's horse was an old charger, and he thundered out, "Halt! Right about face!"
Instantly the old charger stopped—instantly—stopped dead, and away over his head like a rocket shot the soi-disant curate.
In another moment the moorman was on him, had him fast, and said grimly, "You're a five-pounder to me, my reverend party."
Five pounds is the reward for the apprehension of an escaped convict.
The moorman got his five pounds, and the con-
