thin and active, with long, thick, dark, straight hair, cut sharply and forming a sort of rectangular block at the back of his head. His cap was of the kepi pattern in use at certain French schools; but there were no pretensions of a military or at least a uniform character about the rest of his dress which was ordinary enough. He had a yellow-complexioned brazen face with a cunning expression and small restless green eyes. For some streets the boy succeeded in following Wilford and George Martin. Suddenly his progress was arrested—a large hand pressed heavily upon his shoulder. He started, but recollected himself, stooped down, twisted himself, and would have escaped but that the hand moved to his collar, and held him with a firm grip it was hopeless to struggle against.
"Arrêtez donc, cher enfant!" said a calm but rather grating voice.
"You let me go! You let me go! You hurt me! What have I done?" whined the boy in English, but with a strong French accent.
"You follow gentlemen in the street, is it not so, you little fox? I have seen you. You know me?"
"No, I don't know you—I don't know you! Let me go! You let me go!"
"Be quiet, will you," said the voice, and the hand released the boy's collar and grasped his over-large ear. "Silence, petit tapageur! You know me?"
"No," answered the boy, sulkily.
"Regardez donc"—and the boy felt his ear pulled round so that he was compelled to look into the face of a tall man in a glossy hat, with a dainty white neckerchief and gold spectacles. He had jet-black eyebrows and short scraps of black whiskers on his cheeks. He was otherwise scrupulously shaven. His appearance gave one rather the idea of a foreigner trying to look like an Englishman.
"You know me now—is it not so?"
"I have seen you before."
"I think so. Ah! little thief,—would you dare?" The boy had stealthily drawn a small knife from his pocket and unclasped it. The action was perceived at once—an iron grip round his wrist, perhaps, too, the painful pressure of a hard knuckle upon the back of his hand made him open his fingers and drop the knife with a gasp of pain.
"Take care what you do," and his ear was pulled sharply. "I have had my eye upon you for some days—upon you and your estimable family, and the excellent Mère Pichot. You will go straight home, if you please, little one. We will have no more following of English gentlemen in the streets. You will present to Madame Pichot the assurance of my high consideration. Make to her my compliments. Do you understand, my charming boy? and let her know that I am on a visit to London."
"What shall I tell her? What name am I to say?"
The gentleman laughed heartily at this.
"Tell her that Monsieur Chose is staying in town. I think she will know who is meant."
He changed his tone to one of fierceness.
"And let her take care—let her take care; I am not a fool. I will not permit everything. The law has been kind to her as yet, but the times may change; and you, little one, take you care, worthy child of Père Dominique. Do you wish to follow the steps of your admirable and amiable father? He is well; but he is not happy. He complains of confinement, and that he cannot see his friends: and he will not see them—not for twenty years. Where do you live?"
"Over the bridge Waterloo," answered the boy, instantly.
"Little liar! You are too quick. You are promising; if it was not that you are really much older than you look.—I know where you live—I know where to find you. Go, then, and above all take care. You are no match for Monsieur Chose—remember that—nor is Mère Pichot, neither. Good-night, Monsieur Alexis."
He released the boy's ear. The boy stooped as though to avoid a parting blow; but Monsieur Chose had, it seems, no further offensive intentions in regard to him. The boy recovered his knife and darted off quickly; but in a different direction to that taken by Wilford and his friend.
"Little devil!" said Monsieur Chose, dusting his strong white fingers as though to dismiss an unpleasant subject. He then lighted a cigar, drew his coat closely round him, took off his hat to bid a courteous good-night to a passing policeman, and went his way with an elastic step, humming a favourite air from the opera of La Dame Blanche.
THE DOLOURS OF A DINNER-TABLE.
A LETTER CONFIDENTIALLY ADDRESSED TO ALDERMAN ASTERISK.
"My Dear Alderman,
"As you have ever been a good friend to our family, and in our turn we have always done our best to make you comfortable whenever you have come to us, I think I may appeal to you for sympathy and succour in my present wretched plight.
"I am a good old-fashioned dinner-table, solid and substantial as the roast beef and plum pudding, and other good old English dishes it has been my pride to groan under, in the days when men gave hospitable, hearty English dinners, and not those shabby makeshifts they call diners à la Russe. Although I came into the world some sixty years ago, there is not a crack or crevice in my face. My legs are still as strong as when they were first made, and I can bear the heaviest joints without a quiver or a creak. Cheap furniture was unknown in the days when I was born. It was reserved for a later and a (so-called) more enlightened age to see tables glued together like the playthings of a child, and made with leaves that fall as surely to the ground as autumn leaves. There is nothing sham or shabby about me. Some of my younger brethren, I am shocked to hear it said, are made with legs of rosewood and a top of common deal. But I am formed throughout of one well-seasoned costly wood. The mahogany of Spain, and not the fir of Norway, I am proud to tell you, is my family tree. Nor, if you were to see me, even now in my old age, could you say I do discredit to my parent stem. For although I am