Sammy--who looked his character, every inch of it!--was a lanky, shambling youth, apparently eighteen or nineteen years old. He fumbled in his pockets. "I've lost it," he sniggered. "I thought so. That is the third you have lost since we started. Here is another. I will pin it to your coat; then when you are lost, someone will be able to understand who you are. Last, but not least, Thomas, this is Mr. Poltifen. Although this is his first visit to London, he has read a great deal about the Great Metropolis. He has brought a few books with him, from which he proposes to read selections, at various points in our peregrinations, bearing upon the sights we are seeing, in order that instruction may be blended with our entertainment." Mr. Poltifen was a short, thick-set individual, with that in his appearance which was suggestive of pugnacity, an iron-grey, scrubby beard, and a pair of spectacles--probably something superior in the cobbling line. He had about a dozen books fastened together in a leather strap, among them being--as, before the day was finished, I had good reason to be aware--a "History of London," in seven volumes. "Mr. Poltifen," observed my aunt, waving her hand towards the gentleman referred to, "represents, in our party, the quality of intelligent interest." Mr. Poltifen settled his glasses on his nose and glared at me as if he dared me to deny it. Nothing could have been further from my mind. "Sammy," exclaimed my aunt, "sit still. How many times have I to request you not to shuffle?" Sammy was rubbing his knees together in a fashion the like of which I had never seen before. When he was addressed, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and he sniggered. I felt that he was the sort of youth anyone would have been glad to show round town. My aunt took a sheet of paper from her hand-bag.