Brown was also here, and always in a state of wonder. He had very little faith in print, and every hour things happened which made him--to use his own words--"know not what or what not to believe." He presumed that the laity was a certain kind of religious sect, but to him they all seemed without difference. The only difference he could see between a vicar and a curate was that one had a larger corporation and a redder nose than the other. Brown, who was a simple, kind-hearted fellow, said that we were all born of woman; that we were born and that we must all die; that it was a great pity, and made his heart bleed, to see a man come down in life after he has been high up; and that we had to face a cruel fact--although it was almost beyond belief--that a man's own relations often caused the man's downfall which, with his own eyes, he had seen done. "Gambling" Fred was here, looking over the daily paper with "Red Nosed Scotty." They are both short sighted, and, unfortunately, have but one pair of spectacles between them, which is now being used by "Scotty." Suddenly the red nosed man sees the name of a horse. "There you are," he cries exultingly; "there's a sure winner." "Where?" asks his fellow gambler, taking the spectacles and adjusting them on his own nose. "How can I show you now?" asks the red nosed gambler, in a fretful voice, "haven't you got the specs on?" At last matters are arranged to the satisfaction of both, and Fred approaches his friend "Yanks" for the loan of sixpence, to back this horse. But "Yanks" unceremoniously tells his friend to go to hell. At this the gambler sulks all the evening and unfortunately the next day his favoured horse wins. On this transaction the gambler would have been ten shillings in pocket. After this another horse won, which Fred, in his penniless state, professes to have favoured. He would have backed this horse with his ten shillings won from the other race, and would now have been five pounds in pocket. "Yes," says the gambler, pointing to his friend "Yanks"--"that man has done me out of many a golden pound." Poor old "Scotty" Bill was here, a seller of fly papers; who disturbed the kitchen all day, because of the scarcity of flies, as though the lodgers were to blame. "We are having damn strange summers of late years," he said, "different from my younger days; for there is now scarcely a fly to be seen."