"It was too bad in me to talk about my good-luck to that poor ruined fellow," thought honest John, as, after paying for what he and his companion had taken, he started off on his long walk to London; "it was like making a hungry dog look in through the window at a well-filled larder, when he has not so much as a bone to grind between his jaws. Well, well, if Sam Soames had my thirty pounds to-day, there would not be thirty pence of it left by Sunday. He's one of them chaps that no one can help; hard cash—much or little of it—would be no blessing to him." And with this reflection John dismissed the subject from his mind, and took to whistling again. The "young lion" was scarcely at all tired by his ten miles' walk to London. He was puzzled, however, to find his way through its labyrinth of streets, crossing each other in every direction, and found the noise and bustle of the mighty city very distracting. "I've heard of some one who said that he'd rather hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak," muttered John to himself, "and I'm much of his mind. I'd think a fortune dearly earned if I'd to go moiling and toiling all my days in a racket like this. But different folk have different tastes; maybe there are some who like it, and would rather see carriages rolling along, than a field of fine wheat bending as the wind blows across it. I'm not one of that sort—that's all." John had some trouble in finding Argyll Street, and it was an hour later than he expected when he reached the bank at last. The young peasant felt a little shy on entering the large room in which were so many clerks at their desks. "Here be a lot of fine gentlemen," thought John, "who have nothing to do from morning till night but count up money, and shovel out gold. How tired one would get of the clink of it, and the endless summing and reckoning! I'd rather by far sow beans!" John's rough jacket and hob-nailed shoes seemed to himself out of place in the bank. Anything like transacting business was new to him, and the "young lion" looked awkward and shy as he advanced, cap in hand, to the front of one of the desks, behind which stood a clerk, who appeared to John to be a very fine gentleman indeed. The clerk inquired what was his business. "I want to get this here cheque cashed," said John, pulling his pocket-book from his breast-pocket, and then fumbling in it to find his valuable paper. It was some little time before he could lay his strong clumsy fingers upon it, and put it down on the desk. "Who gave you this?" asked the clerk. "Justice Burns, it's for thirty pounds; you see my uncle, he left me a legacy, and—" The man of business cut the speech of the countryman short. "This cheque is of no use," he said, pushing it back towards John, "there is no signature on it." Carey stared in blank amazement, first at the speaker, then at the cheque. What the clerk had said was true enough; the gouty Justice in drawing out the cheque had forgotten to sign his name.