Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, and it was filled with all the expedition of fear. “Pull away! make haste, for Heaven’s sake!” said the voice from without; “the gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught. He mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator; and though I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you. I don’t know what has taken him out of the way now. Make haste, pull away!” The heavy bag was soon pulled up. “Have you any more?” said Archer. “Yes, plenty. Let down quick! I’ve got the tailor’s bag full, which is three times as large as yours, and I’ve changed clothes with the tailor’s boy; so nobody took notice of me as I came down the street.” “There’s my own cousin!” exclaimed Archer, “there’s a noble fellow! there’s my own cousin, I acknowledge. Fill the bag, then.” Several times the bag descended and ascended; and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were heard. “I have no more!” at length the boy with the tailor’s bag cried. “Off with you, then; we’ve enough, and thank you.” A delightful review was now made of their treasure. Busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass. Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged master of the whole. Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air. “Friend,” said he, “you look like a great philosopher, and Archer a great hero.” “And you, Townsend,” said Archer, “may look like a wit, if you will; but you will never be a hero.” “No, no,” replied Townsend; “wits were never heroes, because they are wits. You are out of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero.” “Laugh, and welcome. I’m not a tyrant. I don’t want to restrain anybody’s wit; but I cannot say I admire puns.”