In an unlucky hour, however, he took to reading voyages and travels, and was smitten with a desire to see the world.  This desire increased upon him as he grew up; so, early one bright, sunny morning, he put all his effects in a knapsack, slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and called in his way to take leave of his early schoolmate.  Jack was just going out with the plough:  the friends shook hands over the farm-house gate; Jack drove his team afield, and Slingsby whistled “Over the hills, and far away,” and sallied forth gaily to “seek his fortune.”

Years and years passed by, and young Tom Slingsby was forgotten:  when, one mellow Sunday afternoon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat advanced in life, with a coat out at elbows, a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a few things tied in a handkerchief, and slung on the end of a stick, was seen loitering through the village.  He appeared to regard several houses attentively, to peer into the windows that were open, to eye the villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then to pass some time in the churchyard, reading the tombstones.

At length he found his way to the farm-house of Ready-Money Jack, but paused ere he attempted the wicket; contemplating the picture of substantial independence before him.  In the porch of the house sat Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress, with his hat upon his head, his pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before him, the monarch of all he surveyed.  Beside him lay his fat house-dog.  The varied sounds of poultry were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees hummed from their hives in the garden; the cattle lowed in the rich meadow:  while the crammed barns and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest.

The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously towards the house.  The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but was immediately silenced by his master, who, taking his pipe from his mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect the address of this equivocal personage.  The stranger eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon his own threadbare and starveling condition, and the scanty bundle which he held in his hand; then giving his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make it meet his receding waistband; and casting another look, half sad, half humorous at the sturdy yeoman, “I suppose,” said he, “Mr. Tibbets, you have forgot old times and old playmates?”

The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowledged that he had no recollection of him.

[Illustration:  “Why, no sure! it can’t be Tom Slingsby?”—­Page 189.]

“Like enough, like enough,” said the stranger; “everybody seems to have forgotten poor Slingsby?”

“Why, no sure! it can’t be Tom Slingsby?”

“Yes, but it is, though!” replied the stranger, shaking his head.

Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling; thrust out his hand, gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other hand on a bench, “Sit down there,” cried he, “Tom Slingsby!”