“Ay, you may say that. Bibles is a drug in the market; and to expect us to keep one when we had a chance to sell it! Family Bibles is out of fashion now—can’t get the price of the binding for them—and the last we had lay for a year in the windy.” “And so you sold this one?” I said quietly, having got time to think during Tim’s speech. “Who was the buyer?” “Blest if I can tell—seemed a sort of ‘revival,’” by which Tim meant a “revivalist,” a name given to a sect of religious enthusiasts then newly started in Edinburgh. “Was it you who sold the Bible to him?” “Yes, that’s why that man kicked up the row. He says my father knew it wasn’t to be sold. I wasn’t to know that, and I was glad to get rid of it. The ‘revival’ was near not taking it because the Family Register was cut out—tried to beat me down two shillings for that. Religious folks are always the biggest screws.” “You must be terribly religious then,” I calmly remarked to Tim, for I knew that that youthful precocity could drive a bargain which would have drawn a blush to the cheeks of the biggest rogue of a broker who ever bartered and sold. Tim grinned delightedly at the tribute to his genius. “Would you know the ‘revival’ again?” I asked, beginning to think I was fairly done at last. “Oh, fine. I’ve seen him before, giving away tracts on the streets. He left me one, after buying the Bible and trying to beat me down two shillings.” “Have you got it now?” “No; I used it to light the gas—it saved a match, you know.” I thought if any one was likely to save money and die rich that one was Tim, but I was to change my opinion soon by discovering that the smart young broker was as great a spendthrift as he was a screw. After some further conversation I warned him to say nothing to Morley of my visit, should that worthy return, as I had no doubt he would, to see Tim’s father. I am doubtful if Tim kept his promise. Certainly if any one offered him a shilling to break it, the promise would instantly kick the beam. After the visit to Tim the suspected yard-keeper seemed a good deal depressed. He went back once, and had a hot quarrel with Tim’s father, threatening the police again, but failing to fulfil that threat. He said the Bible must be got, and the broker promised to do his best—which meant nothing. In the meantime I had been much occupied in thought about Tim himself. His answers to me had appeared frank and truthful enough, but a dire suspicion that it was possible for the monkey to cheat and deceive even me crept into my mind. I discovered that Tim was squandering money right and left, quite unknown to his father. He sometimes went to Portobello, or Leith, or Musselburgh with his companions, and spent a day there, Tim always paying the entire expense, like a lord of the land. Could it be possible that Tim was himself the purchaser of that Family Bible, and the “revival” merely a creation of his vivid imagination?