"Thumb?" Sam, his hard hand released, stared at it a moment perplexed. "That ain't the _method_, sir; not at our school. But I'm gettin' along, and the book is called Lord Macaulay." "What? Macaulay's _Essays?_" "It's called _Lays_, sir--Lord Macaulay's _Lays_. The rest of the class chose it, an' I didn' like to cry off, though I 'd not a-flown so high as a lord myself--not to start with." "The _Lays of Ancient Rome?_ My dear Bossom--my dear Smiles--you'll allow me to dub you Smiles? _On Self Help_, you know. I like to call my friends by these playful sobriquets, and friends we are going to be, you and I. My dear fellow, I used to know 'em by heart--" 'Lars Porsena of Clusium By the nine gods he swore--' "--Is that the ticket, hey?" Mr. Mortimer clapped him on the shoulder. "Dang it!" breathed Sam, "how small the world is!" "Smiles, we must be friends. Even if, for a paltry trifle of seven pounds fifteen and six, I am condemned by your master (whom you will excuse my terming a miscreant) to eke out the dregs of my worthless existence in this infernal yard--no, my loved Arabella, you will pardon me, but as a practical man I insist on facing the worst--even so I have found a congenial spirit, a co-mate and brother in exile, a Friend in my retreat Whom I can whisper: 'Solitude is sweet.' Pursue, my dear Smiles! You are young: hope sits on your helm and irradiates it. For me, my bark is stranded, my fortunes shipwrecked, my career trickles out in the sands. Nevertheless, take the advice of an Elder Brother, and pursue. By the way"--Mr. Mortimer drew from his breast-pocket the stump of a half-consumed cigar--"I regret that I have not its fellow to offer you; but could you oblige me with a match?" Sam produced a couple of sulphur matches. "I thank you." Mr. Mortimer lit and inhaled. "A--ah!" he sighed between two luxurious puffs. "Connoisseurs--epicures--tell me a cigar should never be lit twice. But with tobacco of this quality--the last of the box, alas! All its blooming companions--and, between you and me, smuggled." He winked knowingly. Just then a hooter from the Great Brewery announced five o'clock. Sam groaned. He had engaged himself to the schoolmaster for an hour's private tuition before the Evening Class opened, and Mr. Mortimer's fascinating talk had destroyed his last chance of keeping that engagement. Even if he dropped work straight away, it would take him a good three-quarters of an hour to clean himself and don his best suit. He was explaining this to Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer when, his eyes resting on the empty shafts of the wagon, a happy thought occurred to him. "O' course," he began, "--but there, I don't like to suggest it, sir." "Say on, my friend." "Well--I was thinkin' that you, may be, bein' accustomed to hosses--" "My father," put in Mr. Mortimer, "rode to hounds habitually. A _beau ideal_, if I may say so, of the Old English squire. It is in the blood."