“I accept your offer most willingly, and the more so as I suspect I have had the honor of being presented to you,” said the stranger. “Do I address Mr. Annesley Beecher?” “Eh?--I'm not aware--I'm not quite sure, by this light,” began Beecher, in considerable embarrassment, which the other as quickly perceived, and remedied by saying,-- “I met you at poor Kellett's. My name is Conway.” “Oh, Conway,--all right,” said Beecher, laughing. “I was afraid you might be a 'dark horse,' as we say. Now that I know your colors, I'm easy again.” Conway laughed too at the frankness of the confession, and they turned to walk the deck together. “You mentioned Kellett. He 's gone 'toes up,' is n't he?” said Beecher. “He is dead, poor fellow,” said Conway, gravely. “I expected to have met you at his funeral.” “So I should have been had it come off on a Sunday,” said Beecher, pleasantly; “but as in seeing old Paul 'tucked in' they might have nabbed me, I preferred being reported absent without leave.” “These were strong reasons, doubtless,” said Conway, dryly. “I liked the old fellow, too,” said Beecher. “He was a bit of a bore, to be sure, about Arayo Molinos, and Albuera, and Soult, and Beresford, and the rest of 'em; but he was a rare good one to help a fellow at a pinch, and hospitable as a prince.” “That I 'm sure of!” chimed in Conway. “I know it, I can swear to it; I used to dine with him every Sunday, regularly as the day came. I'll never forget those little tough legs of mutton,--wherever he found them there's no saying,--and those hard pellets of capers, like big swan-shot, washed down with table beer and whiskey-grog, and poor Kellett thinking all the while he was giving you haunch of venison and red hermitage.” “He 'd have given them just as freely if he had them,” broke in Conway, half gruffly. “That he would! He did so when he had it to give,--at least, so they tell me, for I never saw the old place at Kellett's Town, or Castle Kellett--” “Kellett's Court was the name.” “Ay, to be sure, Kellett's Court. I wonder how I could forget it, for I'm sure I heard it often enough.” “One forgets many a thing they ought to remember,” said Conway, significantly. “Hit him again, he hasn't got no friends!” broke in Beecher, laughing jovially at this rebuke of himself. “You mean, that I ought to have a fresher memory about all old Paul's kindnesses, and you 're right there; but if you knew how hard the world has hit _me_, how hot they 've been giving it to me these years back, you 'd perhaps not lean so heavily on me. Since the Epsom of '42,” said he, solemnly, “I never had one chance, not one, I pledge you my sacred word of honor. I 've had my little 'innings,' you know, like every one else,--punted for five-pun-notes with the small ones, but never a real chance. Now, I call that hard, deuced hard.” “I suppose it _is_ hard,” said Conway; but, really, it would have been very difficult to say in what sense his words should be taken.