What a changeful life was it now that he led,--at one time a tutor, at another a commissionaire for an hotel, a railway porter, a travelling servant, a police spy, the doorkeeper of a circus company, editor of an English journal, veterinary, language master, agent for patent medicines, picture-dealer, and companion to a nervous invalid, which, as Paul said, meant a furious maniac. There is no telling what he went through of debt and difficulty, till the police actually preferred passing him quietly over the frontier to following up with penalty so incurable an offender. In this way had he wandered about Europe for years, the terror of legations, the pestilence of charitable committees. Contributions to enable the Rev. Paul Classon to redeem his clothes, his watch, his divinity library, to send him to England, to the Andes, to Africa, figured everywhere. I dare not say how often he had been rescued out of the lowest pit of despondency, or snatched like a brand from the burning; in fact, he lived in a pit, and was always on fire. “I am delighted,” said Davis, as he replenished his friend's plate,--“I am delighted to see that you have the same good, hearty appetite as of old, Paul.” “Ay, Kit,” said he, with a gentle sigh, “the appetite has been more faithful than the dinner; on the same principle, perhaps, that the last people who desert us are our creditors!” “I suspect you 've had rather a hard time of it,” said Davis, compassionately. “Well, not much to complain of,--not anything that one would call hardships,” said Classon, as he pushed his plate from him and proceeded to light a cigar; “we 're all stragglers, Kit, that's the fact of it.” “I suppose it is; but it ain't very disagreeable to be a straggler with ten thousand a year.” “If the having and enjoying were always centred in the same individual,” said Classon, slowly, “what you say would be unanswerable; but it's not so, Kit. No, no; the fellows who really enjoy life never have anything. They are, so to say, guests on a visit to this earth, come to pass a few months pleasantly, to put up anywhere, and be content with everything.” Grog shook his head dissentingly, and the other went on, “Who knows the truth of what I am saying better than either of us? How many broad acres did your father or mine bequeath us? What debentures, railroad shares, mining scrip, or mortgages? And yet, Kit, if we come to make up the score of pleasant days and glorious nights, do you fancy that any noble lord of them all would dispute the palm with us? Oh,” said he, rapturously, “give _me_ the unearned enjoyments of life,--pleasures that have never cost me a thought to provide, nor a sixpence to pay for! Pass the wine, Kit,--that bottle is better than the other;” and be smacked his lips, while his eyes closed in a sort of dreamy rapture. “I 'd like to hear something of your life, Paul,” said Davis. “I often saw your name in the 'Times' and the 'Post,' but I 'd like to have your own account of it.”