The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out: he had settled into a doze, when he was suddenly wakened by the wheels of a coach and the trampling of horses. Not knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that the vehicle he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It was a coach coming from London, and the driver was joking with a pretty barmaid who, in rather short petticoats, was fielding up to him the customary glass. The man, after satisfying himself that his time was not yet come, was turning back to the fire, when a head popped itself out of the window, and a voice cried, "Stars and garters! Will--so that's you!" At the sound of the voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and his limbs trembled. The inside passenger opened the door, jumped out with a little carpet-bag in his hand, took forth a long leathern purse from which he ostentatiously selected the coins that paid his fare and satisfied the coachman, and then, passing his arm through that of the acquaintance he had discovered, led him back into the house. "Will--Will," he whispered, "you have been to the Mortons. Never moind-- let's hear all. Jenny or Dolly, or whatever your sweet praetty name is-- a private room and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water and lots of the grocery. That's right." And as soon as the pair found themselves, with the brandy before them, in a small parlour with a good fire, the last comer went to the door, shut it cautiously, flung his bag under the table, took off his gloves, spread himself wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirely excluded every ray from his friend, and then suddenly turning so that the back might enjoy what the front had gained, he exclaimed. "Damme, Will, you're a praetty sort of a broather to give me the slip in that way. But in this world every man for his-self!" "I tell you," said William, with something like decision in his voice, "that I will not do any wrong to these young men if they live." "Who asks you to do a wrong to them?--booby! Perhaps I may be the best friend they may have yet--ay, or you too, though you're the ungratefulest whimsicallist sort of a son of a gun that ever I came across. Come, help yourself, and don't roll up your eyes in that way, like a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye!" Here the speaker paused a moment, and with a graver and more natural tone of voice proceeded: "So you did not believe me when I told you that these brothers were dead, and you have been to the Mortons to learn more?" "Yes." "Well, and what have you learned?" "Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know that they are alive, but he says also that he does not know that they are dead." "Indeed," said the other, listening with great attention; "and you really think that he does not know anything about them?" "I do, indeed." "Hum! Is he a sort of man who would post down the rhino to help the search?"