“Isn't that great, young gentlemen?” and Beazley took a turn round the room: “it's the finest thing done in Liverpool in our time. Tommy has come in again an easy first on the ten miles--just skipped round Baughfell: there's nothing like the old school for rearing hardy fellows with plenty of puff in them for a big hill.” “Thomas 'ill be a proud man the night,” remarked Macfarlane, “and his wife will be lifted.” “What about the Hatchard securities and encouragement company? isn't it a booming concern, and aren't the three men lucky dogs who took founders' shares? Oxley, old chap,” and Freddie grew serious, “it was you who put Tommy on his legs, and helped him on to this big thing.” “Nonsense! we all had a share in the idea; and now that I remember, it was you, Beazley, who sang his praises that day till Macfarlane allowed his pipe to go out, and I had to join the chorus. Isn't that so, Mac.?” Macfarlane was understood to give judgment of strict impartiality--that the one was as bad as another, and that he had been a victim in their hands, but that the result had not been destructive of morality in Liverpool, nor absolutely ruinous to the character of Thomas Hatchard, beyond which nothing more could be said. He offered the opinion on his own account that the achievement of Thomas had been mighty. “You can put your money on that, Mac.,” and Beazley went off again: “to pay up the balance of that composition and every private loan with interest, compound too, is simply A1. T. H. has taken the cake. And didn't he train for it, poor chap! “No man enjoyed a good cigar more than Tommy--could not take him in with bad tobacco. Well, I happen to know that he hasn't had one smoke since July 7th, *87. Of course he could have had as much 'baccy as he wanted; but no, it was a bit of the training--giving up every luxury, d'ye see?” “I wish I was Thomas the night,” remarked Macfarlane. “He 'ill have a worthwhile smoke.” “He rather liked a good lunch, and did justice to his grub, too,” continued Beazley. “Well, for ten years he's taken his midday meal standing, on milk and bread--not half bad all the same--at the Milk-Pail in Fenwick Street, and he wouldn't allow himself a cup of tea. You saw how he lived at Heswall, Oxley?” “Yes, he found out that he could get a little house, with a bit of garden, for forty pounds, taxes included, and so he settled there and cut the whole concern here. There was one sitting-room for the children and another for themselves, and the garden was the drawing-room; but I don't believe Hatchard was ever happier, and Mrs. Hatchard has turned out a heroine.”