passes universally by the title of Grandfather—I have not the least notion that he would answer to Dick. Also a slim, grim-looking, white-headed lad, whose hair is bleached and skin bronzed by the sun, till he is as hideous as an Indian idol, goes—good lack!—by the pastoral misnomer of the Gentle Shepherd. Oh, manes of Allan Ramsay!—The Gentle Shepherd!—Another youth, regular at cricket, but never seen except then, of unknown parish and parentage, and singular uncouthness of person, dress, and demeanour, rough as a badger, ragged as a colt, and sour as verjuice, was known, far more appropriately, by the cognomen of Oddity. Him, in my secret soul, I pitched on for Jack Hatch. In the first place, as I had in the one case a man without a name, and in the other a name without a man, to have found these component parts of individuality meet in the same person; to have made the name fit the man, and the man fit the name, would have been as pretty a way of solving two enigmas at once as hath been heard of since Œdipus his day. But besides the obvious convenience and suitability of this belief, I had divers other corroborating reasons. Oddity was young; so was Jack. Oddity came up the hill from Lea-ward; so must Jack. Oddity was a capital cricketer; so was Jack. Oddity did not play in our unlucky Beech-hill match; neither did Jack. And last of all, Oddity’s name
