I suppose it was the word "story books" that led to my mentioning that immortal novel which at that moment held all the town in a spell of wonder and delight. But no sooner had I uttered the magic name of _Tom Jones_ than I thought I saw my companion's flushed face flush deeper than ever, and at the same instant my mind was assailed with a dozen points of recognition. In a flash I jumped to the conclusion that I was being entertained by the author of that inimitable work. For a moment we sat regarding one another with the frankest amusement. Then my companion took up his glass, and lifting it slowly to his lips, says: "Lord Tiverton." Thereupon I followed his polite example; and when the glass was at my lips, says I: "Mr. Henry Fielding." Upon that we fell a-laughing wildly, and wrung one another warmly by the hand. Now that the murder was out we grew closer in good-fellowship. Had we not shown proofs of an admirable sagacity in our previous respect for one another? The magistrate, however, was aghast. No sooner was he acquainted with my name than he was beset with his manifest duty as a justice of the peace. "As you are a refugee from the law, my lord," says he, looking anxiously at me and then at Fielding, "I fear that I have no alternative other than to hand you over to the proper authorities. You see, as one holding his Majesty's commission of the peace for this county, I am precluded from giving way to any private feelings I might entertain in the matter, but must do my plain and obvious duty, however it be opposed to the dictates of my heart." The dignity and the rather florid effect of this speech, which I will do Sir Thomas the justice of saying was very well meant, was utterly spoiled by Mr. Fielding's reception of it. "Come down off the high horse, Tommie, if you love me," says he. "Be damned to the dictates of your heart and your duty too. Do strive to be natural, Tommie; if you would but be content to be natural I would suffer you gladly, for at bottom you are as good a fellow as I know. But when you get on these magisterial airs of yours a common mortal cannot touch you with a six-foot pole." "That is all very well, Harry," says Sir Thomas, "but you forget my responsibilities." "There you go again," says Fielding. "Be damned to your responsibilities. Come and drink a glass of good claret with us and forget yourself, your office, your dignity, your wig, your knighthood, and your laced coat for a brief five minutes. Perpend, Tommie, perpend; and for the nonce consent to be a human being." "Would you have me, then," says the magistrate, "sit down with a man in my own house, knowing him to be a great criminal? How can I possibly entertain such a person? Were I to do so I should be altogether unworthy of the high trust that hath been reposed in me." Mr. Fielding scratched his wig. "A very moral sentiment," says he, "but all the morality in the world is not worth a penn'orth of humanity."