and, by the exercise of a signal dexterity, relieved him from a bone in his throat, and reluctantly imparted his address on issuing from the said tavern.  Or perhaps it was a lonely highway where the old gentleman walked, and John Raikes had his name in the papers for a deed of heroism, nor was man ungrateful.  Since he had eaten up his uncle, this old gentleman of his dreams walked in town and country-only, and alas!  Mr. Raikes could never encounter him in the flesh.  The muscles of his face, therefore, are no index to the real feelings of the youth when he had thoroughly mastered the contents of the letter, and reflected that the dream of his luck—­his angelic old gentleman—­had gone and wantonly bestowed himself upon Evan Harrington, instead of the expectant and far worthier John Raikes.  Worthier inasmuch as he gave him credence for existing long ere he knew of him and beheld him manifest.

Raikes retreated to the vacant parlour of the Green Dragon, and there Evan found him staring at the unfolded letter, his head between his cramped fists, with a contraction of his mouth.  Evan was troubled by what he had seen up-stairs, and did not speak till Jack looked up and said, ‘Oh, there you are.’

‘Well, what do you think, Jack?’

‘Yes—­it’s all right,’ Raikes rejoined in most matter-of-course tone, and then he stepped to the window, and puffed a very deep breath indeed, and glanced from the straight line of the street to the heavens, with whom, injured as he was, he felt more at home now that he knew them capable of miracles.

‘Is it a bad joke played upon me?’ said Evan.

Raikes upset a chair.  ’It’s quite childish.  You’re made a gentleman for life, and you ask if it’s a joke played upon you!  It’s maddening!  There—­there goes my hat!’

With a vehement kick, Mr. Raikes despatched his ancient head-gear to the other end of the room, saying that he must have some wine, and would; and disdainful was his look at Evan, when the latter attempted to reason him into economy.  He ordered the wine; drank a glass, which coloured a new mood in him; and affecting a practical manner, said: 

’I confess I have been a little hurt with you, Harrington.  You left me stranded on the desert isle.  I thought myself abandoned.  I thought I should never see anything but the lengthening of an endless bill on my landlady’s face—­my sole planet.  I was resigned till I heard my friend “to-lool!” this morning.  He kindled recollection.  But, this is a tidy Port, and that was a delectable sort of young lady that you were riding with when we parted last!  She laughs like the true metal.  I suppose you know it ’s the identical damsel I met the day before, and owe it to for my run on the downs—­I ‘ve a compliment ready made for her.’

‘You think that letter written in good faith?’ said Evan.

‘Look here.’  Mr. Raikes put on a calmness.  ’You got up the other night, and said you were a tailor—­a devotee of the cabbage and the goose.  Why the notion didn’t strike me is extraordinary—­I ought to have known my man.  However, the old gentleman who gave the supper—­he’s evidently one of your beastly rich old ruffianly republicans—­spent part of his time in America, I dare say.  Put two and two together.’