As _The Rover,_ with her nimble cargoes, was first cousin to _The Flying Dutchman,_ with his crew of ghosts, so the bills received by Severne, as purchase-money for his ship, necessarily partook of that ship's aerial character. Indeed they existed, as the schoolmen used to say, in _posse,_ but not in _esse._ To be less pedantic and more exact, they existed as slips of blank paper, with a Government stamp. To give them a mercantile character for a time--viz., until presented for payment--they must be drawn by an imaginary ship-owner or a visionary merchant, and indorsed by at least one shadow, and a man of straw. The man of straw sat down to inscribe self and shadows, and became a dishonest writer of fiction; for the art he now commenced appears to fall short of forgery proper, but to be still more distinct from justifiable fiction. The ingenious Mr. De Foe's certificate by an aeial justice of the peace to the truth of his ghostly narrative comes nearest to it, in my poor reading. Qualms he had, but not deep. If the bills were drawn by Imagination, accepted by Fancy, and indorsed by Impudence, what did it matter to Ned Straw, since his system would enable him to redeem them at maturity? His only real concern was to conceal their recent origin. So he wrote them with a broad-nibbed pen, that they might be the blacker, and set them to dry in the sun. He then proceeded to a change of toilet. While thus employed, there was a sharp tap at his door and Vizard's voice outside. Severne started with terror, snapped up the three bills with the dexterity of a conjurer--the handle turned--he shoved them into a drawer--Vizard came in--he shut the drawer, and panted. Vizard had followed the custom of Oxonians among themselves, which is to knock, and then come in, unless forbidden. “Come,” said he, cheerfully, “those bills. I'm in a hurry to cash them now, and end the only difference we have ever had, old fellow.” The blood left Severne's cheek and lips for a moment, and he thought swiftly and hard. The blood returned, along with his ready wit. “How good you are!” said he; “but no. It is Sunday.” “Sunday!” ejaculated Vizard. “What is that to you, a fellow who has been years abroad?” “I can't help it,” said Severne, apologetically. “I am superstitious--don't like to do business on a Sunday. I would not even shunt at the tables on a Sunday--I don't think.” “Ah, you are not quite sure of that. There _is_ a limit to your superstition! Well, will you listen to a story on a Sunday?” “Rather!”