by some freak of the “total depravity of things,” the translated order for the assorted cargo was not there.  John Coram, in his care to fold up the Japanese writing nicely, had left on his own desk at Shanghae the more intelligible English.  “And so I must wait,” said Tom philosophically, “till the next East India mail for my orders, certain that seven English houses have had less enthusiastic and philological correspondents than my brother.”

I said I did not see that.  That I could not teach him to speak the Taghalian dialects so well, that he could read them with facility before Saturday.  But I could do a good deal better.  Did he remember writing a note to old Jack Percival for me five years ago?  No, he remembered no such thing; he knew Jack Percival, but never wrote a note to him in his life.  Did he remember giving me fifty dollars, because I had taken a delicate boy, whom I was going to send to sea, and I was not quite satisfied with the government outfit?  No, he did not remember that, which was not strange, for that was a thing he was doing every day, “Well, I don’t care how much you remember, but the boy about whom you wrote to Jack Percival, for whose mother’s ease of mind you provided the half-hundred, is back again,—­strong, straight, and well; what is more to the point, he had the whole charge of Perry’s commissariat on shore at Yokohama, was honorably discharged out there, reads Japanese better than you read English; and if it will help you at all, he shall be here at your house at breakfast.”  For as I spoke we stopped at Coram’s door.  “Ingham,” said Coram, “if you were not a parson, I should say you were romancing.”  “My child,” said I, “I sometimes write a parable for the Atlantic; but the words of my lips are verity, as all those of the Sandemanians.  Go to bed; do not even dream of the Taghalian dialects; be sure that the Japanese interpreter will breakfast with you, and the next time you are in a scrape send for the nearest minister.  George, tell your brother Ezra that Mr. Coram wishes him to breakfast here to-morrow morning at eight o’clock; don’t forget the number, Pemberton Square, you know.”  “Yes, sir,” said George; and Thomas Coram laughed, said “Merry Christmas,” and we parted.

It was time we were all in bed, especially these boys.  But glad enough am I as I write these words that the meeting of Coram set us back that dropped-stitch in our night’s journey.  There was one more delay.  We were sweeping by the Old State House, the boys singing again, “Carol, carol, Christians,” as we dashed along the still streets, when I caught sight of Adams Todd, and he recognized me.  He had heard us singing when we were at the Advertiser office.  Todd is an old fellow-apprentice of mine,—­and he is now, or rather was that night, chief pressman in the Argus office.  I like the Argus people,—­it was there that I was South American Editor, now many years ago,—­and they befriend me to this hour.  Todd hailed me, and once more I stopped.