in their reddened lids, as if he could cry them out at the shortest notice.  I observed that he never looked his interlocutors in the face, but stared chiefly at their feet, as if surmising whether they would kick, or gazed into remote distance, as if trying to see round the world and get a view of his own back.  His dress was a full suit of black, fine in texture, but bagging about him in a way that made you wonder whether he had not lost a hundred-weight or so in training for his spiritual battles.  His manners were quiet, and would not have been disagreeable, but for an air of uncomfortably stiff solemnity, which draped him from head to foot like a robe of moral oilcloth, and might almost be said to rustle audibly.  Whether he was a practical joker, a swindler, a fanatic, or a madman, my spiritual vision was not keen enough to discover at first sight.  Beside him and ourselves the party consisted of a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick-maker, all members of the Doctor’s church and indefatigable workers of miracles,—­plain men and foolish, but respectable in standing and sincere in their folly.  Mr. Riley was so commonplace as to address me in English, probably because he wanted an answer.

“Do you accompany us, Sir, on this blessed crusade against crime and unbelief?” he asked.

“My friend, Dr. Potter, has granted me that inestimable privilege,” responded I.

“I hope—­in fact, I firmly believe—­that Providence will aid us,” he continued.

“I hope so, too,” said I.  “But wouldn’t it be advisable to have a policeman, too?”

“By no means!  Certainly not!” he returned, with considerable excitement.  “All we want is a band of saints, of justified souls, of men fitted for the martyr’s crown.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it, Sir?  Well, shall we get into the cars?  There they are.”

The train was full, and our party had to scatter, but Mr. Riley and I got seats together.

“I have not seen you at our meetings, Sir,” he continued.  “Allow me to ask, are you a believer in Dispensationism?”

“Not so strong as I might be.  However, I have been absent from Troubleton for three months, and only returned yesterday.”

“Ah! you have lost precious opportunities.  You must lose no more.  Life is short.”

“And uncertain,” I added.  “Especially in railroad travelling.”

“My dear Sir, I hope this road is prudently conducted,” he said, with a look of some little anxiety.

“Not many accidents,” I answered.  “And then, you know, we are always in the hands of Providence.  No fear of slipping through the fingers unnoticed.”

“No, Sir, certainly not,” he remarked, wrapping his moral oilcloth about him again.  “Have you felt any extraordinary spiritual impressions since you returned?”

“Nothing lasting, I think.  Nothing that a night’s sleep wouldn’t take off the edge of.”

“No desire to lay hands on some sin-stricken wretch and cure him of the evil that is in him?”