There was a tone of contrition in this rambling apology that satisfied Mr. Wallis of its truth; and he immediately entered into an explanation on the Frenchman's situation. He had known him, he said, for several years as a tutor in the family of one of his clients, by whom he was much respected: a heavy loss had compelled them suddenly to reduce their establishment; Dubois had entreated to remain with his pupil--refused to receive any salary--and had even served his old patron in the capacity of a menial, adhering to him in all his misfortunes, and only parted with him, reluctantly, at the door of the debtor's prison! “Did he do that?” said my master; and I saw his eyes moisten at the relation. “A French mounseer do that! Game--d___ me!”--and lifting the lid of his desk, he drew out a five pound note! “Here, Wallis, tip him this flimsey! Tell him--you know what to say--I'm no speechifier--but you know what I mean.” I almost jumped up and hugged my master, I was so excited. The next day Monsieur Dubois again made his appearance; and Mr. Wallis had the pleasure of beholding Mr. Timmis and his gallic friend on the best terms imaginable. As for me, I had good cause to rejoice; for it was agreed that I should take lessons in the “foreign lingo,” by way of giving him “a lift,” as Mr. Timmis expressed it. I remember him with feelings of gratitude; for I owe much more than the knowledge of the language to his kindness and instruction. As for Mr. Timmis, he could never sufficiently appreciate his worth, although he uniformly treated him with kindness. “Talk of refinement,” said he, one day, when discussing Dubois' merits with Mr. Wallis; “I saw a bit to-day as bangs everything. A cadger sweeping a crossing fell out with a dustman. Wasn't there some spicy jaw betwixt 'em. Well, nothing would suit, but the dustman must have a go, and pitch into the cadger. “D___ me, what does the cove do, but he outs with a bit of dirty pasteboard, and he says, says he, 'I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!--but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!' Wasn't there a roar! I lugg'd out a bob, and flung it at the vagabond for his wit.” CHAPTER XIII.--My Talent Called into Active Service. “Ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?” “I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they're sich ugly warmints.” Having to deliver a letter, containing an account and a stock receipt, to one of Mr. Timmis's clients, residing at the west end of the town; in crossing through one of the fashionable squares, I observed a flat-faced negro servant in livery, standing at the door of one of the houses. Two chimney sweepers who happened to be passing, showed their white teeth in a contemptuous grin at the African. “Bob,” I overheard one remark, “ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?”