A curious difficulty sometimes faces the administrators of the law in dealing with some of that numerous class known as swindlers. A man calls at various houses and represents that he is a clergyman in want or distress, and thus gets money. Some one sharper than the rest runs him down, and he is caught and charged; when, lo! it turns out that the so-called rogue—and rogue he generally is—has actually been a clergyman, and of course is, in common with all broken men, actually in want. The result is clear—there has been no fraud. He has deceived no one; he has told the truth; and though he might be convicted of begging, he cannot be charged with swindling or obtaining money under false pretences. It is a man of this stamp I have now to introduce. His real name was Alfred Johnston. He was a college-bred man of great smartness, and would have soon made a mark as a clergyman had he not been caught and ruined by a bad woman. Rendered dissolute in his habits and disowned by his friends, he changed his life and became as great a rascal as before he had been promising as a man. Even with talents such as Johnston possessed this life is not all smooth sailing. There come times of want and danger, when their dearest companions would betray them without reward, or see them drop dying of hunger at their feet without putting out a hand to save. These are the reverses which are never heard of, but which are more common in a life of crime than any other on the face of the globe. Johnston had tramped on foot the greater part of the road from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and had just crossed the boundary of the shire, which means that he was ten or twelve miles from the capital. His appearance was very much against him, or his route would have been easier. His boots were mere shreds of leather, through which his feet showed conspicuously, and he had no stockings. He had no shirt, and the utmost ingenuity in buttoning up his ragged coat could scarcely conceal the fact. The only trace of respectability remaining about his attire was a shabby and much battered dress hat. Johnston was a very good-looking fellow, with fine flowing black hair, and a big beard and moustache, and was still young—about thirty—but Apollo himself would have had an evil look in such a garb, so this prodigal’s lines had been hard ones for some time. In this plight—wearied in body, tired of life, disgusted with himself and all the world—Johnston lay down on a green bank by the road-side, wondering whether it were best to lie there and die, or struggle on over the remaining miles, which seemed to lengthen as they grew fewer in number.