sted Pudleigh since the evening on which he had danced down the steps of Driver's office, and he had changed very little. Possibly he was a little greasier; the copper shade of his complexion was possibly a little darker; I could not be sure. But I was surer than ever that Chelubai's failure in philanthropy had been of no service to the world. I sat as near the directors as I could, for I wanted to hear Pudleigh when he read the Agenda paper.
Honest John Driver, honester than ever, called on Pleever to read the minutes of the last meeting, and when he had done Pudleigh rose and began the usual speech on the directors' report, or rather on the directors' lament on the conditions of the company. His soothing and apologetic statements were received with loud derision by the little group of shareholders from the north, worthies, doubtless, from the neighborhood of Quorley, who knew the quarry to be a good property, and had invested their savings in it. He grew very angry under their interruptions, and when he had done he had reason to grow angrier, for a savage old gentleman, with a strong northern burr in his speech, sprang up and abused him roundly for his disgraceful mismanagement of the company. Pudleigh's clerks tried to shout him down; they might as well have tried to shout down a northwesterly gale. His friends applauded him, and so did we. Pudleigh's little eyes moved quickly about the
