at the small, grubby boy who was looking at him with one eye and trying to learn the Collect for the day (it was Sunday) with the other.  Hugh had never before seen any one in the least like Mr. Pidgen.  He was short and round, and his head was covered with tight little curls.  His cheeks were chubby and red and his nose small, his mouth also very small.  He had no chin.  He was wearing a bright blue velvet waistcoat with brass buttons, and over his black shoes there shone white spats.

Hugh had never seen white spats before.  Mr. Pidgen shone with cleanliness, and he had supremely the air of having been exactly as he was, all in one piece, years ago.  He was like one of the china ornaments in Mrs. Lasher’s drawing-room that the housemaid is told to be so careful about, and concerning whose destruction Hugh heard her on at least one occasion declaring, in a voice half tears, half defiance, “Please, ma’am, it wasn’t me.  It just slipped of itself!” Mr. Pidgen would break very completely were he dropped.

The first thing about him that struck Hugh was his amazing difference from Mr. Lasher.  It seemed strange that any two people so different could be in the same house.  Mr. Lasher never gleamed or shone, he would not break with however violent an action you dropped him, he would certainly never wear white spats.

Hugh liked Mr. Pidgen at once.  They spoke for the first time at the mid-day meal, when Mr. Lasher said, “More Yorkshire pudding, Pidgen?” and Mr. Pidgen said, “I adore it.”

Now Yorkshire pudding happened to be one of Hugh’s special passions just then, particularly when it was very brown and crinkly, so he said quite spontaneously and without taking thought, as he was always told to do,

“So do I!”

“My dear Hugh!” said Mrs. Lasher; “how very greedy!  Fancy!  After all you’ve been told!  Well, well!  Manners, manners!”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Pidgen (his mouth was full).  “I said it first, and I’m older than he is.  I should know better....  I like boys to be greedy, it’s a good sign—­a good sign.  Besides.  Sunday—­after a sermon—­one naturally feels a bit peckish.  Good enough sermon, Lasher, but a bit long.”

Mr. Lasher of course did not like this, and, indeed, it was evident to any one (even to a small boy) that the two gentlemen would have different opinions upon every possible subject.  However, Hugh loved Mr. Pidgen there and then, and decided that he would put him into the story then running (appearing in nightly numbers from the moment of his departure to bed to the instant of slumber—­say ten minutes); he would also, in the imaginary cricket matches that he worked out on paper, give Mr. Pidgen an innings of two hundred not out and make him captain of Kent.  He now observed the vision very carefully and discovered several strange items in his general behaviour.  Mr. Pidgen was fond of whistling and humming to himself; he was restless and would walk up and down a room with his head in the air and his hands behind his broad back, humming (out of tune) “Sally in our Alley,” or “Drink to me only.”  Of course this amazed Mr. Lasher.