Tom listened eagerly to all his friend told him as they went their way towards the river.  So far he had not cared to show himself in the streets till after dusk, as he had become foolishly ashamed of his rustic garb.  He was immensely interested in all that he beheld, and in the stories his companion told him about the places they passed, the persons they met, and the occupants of the coaches which were now rolling to and fro through the streets, taking ladies and their fine gentlemen friends either to the park, or some fashionable rendezvous.

Great indeed was his interest and amazement as they reached the steps beside the river, and Harry signalled to a waterman to bring up a wherry alongside to take them to the Folly.  He had never imagined anything so wide and grand as this great flowing river, lined with its stately buildings, and bearing on its bosom more vessels than he imagined that the world held!  Had it not been for his fear of betraying undue ignorance, he would have broken into a torrent of questions; as it was, he sat in wide-eyed silence, gazing about him like a savage suddenly transported into the world of civilization—­not a little to the amusement of his cicerone.

The Folly was a floating structure not unlike a large houseboat of the present day.  Its guests could walk to and fro upon the roof, or find warmth and entertainment within its walls, as did Harry and his friend; for although the sun shone, the wind blew cold upon the water, and it was pleasanter within the warmed interior, where already a sprinkling of guests had assembled.

The place was divided into two rooms for the public accommodation.  The first of these was a bar and gaming room.  A buxom and rosy-cheeked damsel was presiding at the bar, and several young dandies leaned their elbows upon it, and strove to engage her in conversation.  Some others were already seated at a table, and were throwing the dice, laughing and swearing ceaselessly over their game.  The second room was quieter at present, and upon the table there lay strewn about the various newspapers and pamphlets of the day.  Two or three men were reading them, and discussing the news of the hour as they sipped their coffee or chocolate.

Harry led the way into this place, ordered coffee for himself and his friend, and, whilst nodding familiarly to the occupants of the room, possessed himself of a few papers, and pushed some of them across to Tom.

“A new pamphlet by Jonathan Swift, I see,” he remarked carelessly, with a wink at his pupil.  “You know his Tale of a Tub, Tom?  Monstrous clever thing that!  It tickles one to death reading it.  So do his pamphlets—­sharpest things out.  Some talk of Defoe as his rival; but, for my part, I never read anything that rivals Swift’s writings!  Pity he has such a sharp edge to his temper.  They say he will never get promotion.”

Tom took up the pamphlet, and tried to look as though he were reading it with appreciation; but he had never been much of a student, and the comings and goings of a constant stream of visitors engrossed him far more than the printed words, the meaning of which he understood no whit.