Oh, it would be simple enough! So long as it meant his voluntary exile, it was not of so much consequence; and he had always kept in reserve the time when he could go back to his old position in society. But now he found that when he leaped down it was from a high perpendicular rock, and the base of that rock stood in. Around, too, it was smooth; and, now jumping back was out of the question, climbing appeared impossible. What was to be done? He could not sit still and let Mark hold his title and position without a struggle; but how to begin? Naturally enough, the old state of calm passed away, and Dick's brain was in a state of effervescence as he waited three days for an opportunity to meet and consult with Jerry Brigley. For this had been planned at parting, after Jerry had sworn to be silent until some plan of action had been decided upon. At last Jerry and he met again, and this time went off for a walk towards the country, accidentally taking the road which Dick had followed when he first entered the town. For some time the great subject they had met to discuss was avoided, and they talked about the country round, with its hills and hop-gardens, till Jerry drifted from a remark on the beauty of a sheep-cropped, velvet-green field, with its lawn-like grass, into a lesson on one of the follies of the day. "Yes, sir," he said; "feel how soft it is under your feet! Turf's a lovely thing when it's lawns; but when it's horse-racing, and gets hold on yer tight, it's a sort o' Bedlam-Hanwelly business. Don't you never bet, sir. If I hadn't never betted, I should ha' been a rich man now, with two hundred pound in the savings bank, instead of being a private soldier--me, too, as knows more about valetting a gent than half the chaps as goes into service." "Ah, well, Jerry, don't fret about it; things may get better." "Ay, sir, they may; but then, you see, they might get wuss." "Or half-way between. Let's sit down under this tree; I want to talk." "Not a bad place, sir--fine view o' the Kentish hills. What money a man might make out of chalk, if he had it in some place ready to sell, and people would buy it! Mind my lighting a pipe, sir?" "Mind? No; I've got pretty well hardened to people smoking about me now. Sorry I can't offer you a cigar, Jerry." "Pipe's good enough for such as me, sir. There," continued the man, as he filled his briar-root, "aren't I keeping my tongue well in hand? Haven't called you S'Richard once." "And you must not, whatever you do." "Well, sir," said Jerry, lighting up, and half-shutting his eyes as he leaned back meditatively, "sometimes I don't see why not; sometimes it's all t'other. One day I says to myself, `What's he got to mind? He's livin', and it's all nonsense about his being dead and buried; and, as to that business over the bill and the signature, why, he could fight that down like a gentleman.'"