‘You are wrong,’ maintained Oliver, ‘and more’s the pity for the other ways in which a working-man spends his holiday. But look here, Jack, you meet him in the cricket-field?’ ‘Oh! that is different,’ said young Dadd, carelessly. ‘That is an understood thing. But as for my club, we have only a young weaver and a shoemaker or two able to bat and bowl at our evening practice. The working-man who lives by his cart-horse sinews is mostly too tired for any place save the alehouse, after six o’clock.’ In spite of the slightness of the encouragement he had received, Oliver did feel his way to originating a field naturalists’ society. He sounded his own millers and bakers, and discovered no Robert Dick among them; none went in for weeds. However, in his search, Oliver hit on a stalwart journeyman in his service, who had a small taste for butterflies. Oliver himself had no elegant scientific bent in this direction, but he introduced his baker to the ancient keeper of an ancient, dusty, mouldy, and well-nigh forgotten museum in the town. True, the keeper, in the neglect and oblivion which had fallen upon his charge, had lapsed into hopeless indifference and absolute infidelity to his trust: but he was sufficiently moved by the strange event of a visitor—a pupil—however humble, to the museum, not only to furbish up the remains of what had once been a creditable display of native and foreign butterflies, in the entomological cases, he showed a salutary sense of shame, by volunteering to make a report to the survivors of the committee, who had mismanaged the affairs of the museum, for the purpose of inducing them to employ a portion of the small fund which still remained at their disposal, to pay the young baker to replace the native ‘peacocks’ and ‘emperors,’ that had dropped and crumbled from their pins.