“I will tell you by and by. Do go on; do, pray. I can’t drive--never drove in my life--or I would not ask you. Pray, pray, don’t desert me! If you are a gentleman you will not; and if you are not a gentleman, I have got L10 in my purse, which you shall have when I am safe at Tor-Hadham. Don’t hesitate: my whole life is at stake!” And the boy began once more to sob. Kenelm directed the pony’s head towards Tor-Hadham, and the boy ceased to sob. “You are a good, dear fellow,” said the boy, wiping his eyes. “I am afraid I am taking you very much out of your road.” “I have no road in particular, and would as soon go to Tor-Hadham, which I have never seen, as anywhere else. I am but a wanderer on the face of the earth.” “Have you lost your papa and mamma too? Why, you are not much older than I am.” “Little gentleman,” said Kenelm, gravely, “I am just of age, and you, I suppose, are about fourteen.” “What fun!” cried the boy, abruptly. “Isn’t it fun?” “It will not be fun if I am sentenced to penal servitude for stealing your uncle’s gig, and robbing his little nephew of L10. By the by, that choleric relation of yours meant to knock down somebody else when he struck at me. He asked, ‘Are you the villain?’ Pray who is the villain? he is evidently in your confidence.” “Villain! he is the most honourable, high-minded--But no matter now: I’ll introduce you to him when we reach Tor-Hadham. Whip that pony: he is crawling.” “It is up hill: a good man spares his beast.” No art and no eloquence could extort from his young companion any further explanation than Kenelm had yet received; and indeed, as the journey advanced, and they approached their destination, both parties sank into silence. Kenelm was seriously considering that his first day’s experience of real life in the skin of another had placed in some peril his own. He had knocked down a man evidently respectable and well to do, had carried off that man’s nephew, and made free with that man’s goods and chattels; namely, his gig and horse. All this might be explained satisfactorily to a justice of the peace, but how? By returning to his former skin; by avowing himself to be Kenelm Chillingly, a distinguished university medalist, heir to no ignoble name and some L10,000 a year. But then what a scandal! he who abhorred scandal; in vulgar parlance, what a “row!” he who denied that the very word “row” was sanctioned by any classic authorities in the English language. He would have to explain how he came to be found disguised, carefully disguised, in garments such as no baronet’s eldest son--even though that baronet be the least ancestral man of mark whom it suits the convenience of a First Minister to recommend to the Sovereign for exaltation over the rank of Mister--was ever beheld in, unless he had taken flight to the gold-diggings. Was this a position in which the heir of the Chillinglys, a distinguished family, whose coat-of-arms dated from the earliest