I had heard it darkly whispered that he was something of a vagabond. But the term is so loosely applied, and it seems so difficult, after all, to define what a vagabond is, or to strike the right moral balance between the vagabond work which is boldly published, and the vagabond work which is reserved for private circulation only, that I did not feel justified in holding aloof from my former friend. Accordingly, I renewed our acquaintance, and told him my present difficulty. He was a sharp man, and he showed me a way out of it directly. “You have a good eye for a likeness,” he said; “and you have made it keep you hitherto. Very well. Make it keep you still. You can’t profitably caricature people’s faces any longer--never mind! go to the other extreme, and flatter them now. Turn portrait-painter. You shall have the use of this study three days in the week, for ten shillings a week--sleeping on the hearth-rug included, if you like. Get your paints, rouse up your friends, set to work at once. Drawing is of no consequence; painting is of no consequence; perspective is of no consequence; ideas are of no consequence. Everything is of no consequence, except catching a likeness and flattering your sitter--and that you know you can do.” I felt that I could; and left him for the nearest colorman’s. Before I got to the shop, I met Mr. Batterbury taking his walking exercise. He stopped, shook hands with me affectionately, and asked where I was going. A wonderful idea struck me. Instead of answering his question, I asked after Lady Malkinshaw. “Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Batterbury; “her ladyship tumbled downstairs yesterday morning.” “My dear sir, allow me to congratulate you!” “Most fortunately,” continued Mr. Batterbury, with a strong emphasis on the words, and a fixed stare at me; “most fortunately, the servant had been careless enough to leave a large bundle of clothes for the wash at the foot of the stairs, while she went to answer the door. Falling headlong from the landing, her ladyship pitched (pardon me the expression)--pitched into the very middle of the bundle. She was a little shaken at the time, but is reported to be going on charmingly this morning. Most fortunate, was it not? Seen the papers? Awful news from Demerara--the yellow fever--” “I wish I was at Demerara,” I said, in a hollow voice. “You! Why?” exclaimed Mr. Batterbury, aghast.