“So thus you feed your expenses at the dice: and my shilling, no doubt, is for Luke Settle, as well as the rest.” For the moment, under my look, he went white to the lips; then clapped his hand to his sword, withdrew it, and answered me, red as a turkey-cock—— “Shalt be a parson, yet, Master Scholar: but art in a damn’d hurry, it seems.” Now, I had ever a quick temper, and as he turned on his heel, was like to have replied and raised a brawl. My own meddling tongue had brought the rebuff upon me: but yet my heart was hot as he walked away. I was standing there and looking after him, turning over in my hand the “Life of Saint George,” when my fingers were aware of a slip of paper between the pages. Pulling it out, I saw ’twas scribbled over with writing and figures, as follows:— “Mr. Anthony Killigrew, his acct for Oct. 25th, MDCXLII.—_For herrings_, 2d.; _for coffie_, 4d.; _for scowring my coat_, 6d.; _at bowls_, 5s. 10d.; _for bleading me_, 1s. 0d.; _for ye King’s speech_, 3d.; _for spic’d wine (with Marjory)_, 2s. 4d.; _for seeing ye Rhinoceros_, 4d.; _at ye Ranter-go-round_, 6 ¾d.; _for a pair of silver buttons_, 2s. 6d.; _for apples_, 2 ½d.; _for ale_, 6d.; _at ye dice_, L17 5s.; _for spic’d wine (again)_, 4s. 6d.” And so on. As I glanced my eye down this paper, my anger oozed away, and a great feeling of pity came over me, not only at the name of Anthony—the name I had heard spoken in the bowling-green last night—but also to see that monstrous item of L17 odd spent on the dice. ’Twas such a boy, too, after all, that I was angry with, that had spent fourpence to see the rhinoceros at a fair, and rode on the ranter-go-round (with “Marjory,” no doubt, as ’twas for her, no doubt, the silver buttons were bought). So that, with quick forgiveness, I hurried after him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He stood by the entrance, counting up his money, and drew himself up very stiff. “I think, sir,” said I, “this paper is yours.” “I thank you,” he answered, taking it, and eyeing me. “Is there anything, besides, you wished to say?” “A great deal, maybe, if your name be Anthony.” “Master Anthony Killigrew is my name, sir; now serving under Lord Bernard Stewart in His Majesty’s troop of guards.” “And mine is Jack Marvel,” said I. “Of the Yorkshire Marvels?” “Why, yes; though but a shoot of that good stock, transplanted to Cumberland, and there sadly withered.” “’Tis no matter, sir,” said he politely; “I shall be proud to cross swords with you.” “Why, bless your heart!” I cried out, full of laughter at this childish punctilio; “d’ye think I came to fight you?” “If not, sir”—and he grew colder than ever—“you are going a cursed roundabout way to avoid it.” Upon this, finding no other way out of it, I began my tale at once: but hardly had come to the meeting of the two men on the bowling-green, when he interrupts me politely——