ribbon; a steeple-crowned hat, set on the side of his head with a challenging air; and a pair of broadly-striped and puckered trowsers, reaching well over a small-toed and highly-glazed boot, constitutes his dress.  For the exact set of those two last-named articles of his wardrobe he maintains a scrupulous regard.  We are compelled to acknowledge George an importation from New York, where he would be the more readily recognized by that vulgar epithet, too frequently used by the self-styled refined—­“a swell.”

Life with George is a mere drift of uncertainty.  As for aims and ends, why he sees the safer thing in having nothing to do with them.  Mr. Tom Toddleworth once advised this course, and Tom was esteemed good authority in such matters.  Like many others, his character is made up of those yielding qualities which the teachings of good men may elevate to usefulness, or bad men corrupt by their examples.  There is a stage in the early youth of such persons when we find their minds singularly susceptible, and ready to give rapid growth to all the vices of depraved men; while they are equally apt in receiving good, if good men but take the trouble to care for them, and inculcate lessons of morality.

Not having a recognized home, we may add, in resuming our story, that George makes Baker’s his accustomed haunt during the day, as do also numerous others of his class-a class recognized and made use of by men in the higher walks of life only at night.

“Ah! ha, ha! into a tight place this time, George,” laughs out Mr. Soloman, the accommodation man, as he hastens into the room, seats himself in the box with George, and seizes his hand with the earnestness of a true friend.  Mr. Soloman can deport himself on all occasions with becoming good nature.  “It’s got out, you see.”

“What has got out?” interrupts George, maintaining a careless indifference.

“Come now! none of that, old fellow.”

“If I understood you—­”

“That affair last night,” pursues Mr. Soloman, his delicate fingers wandering into his more delicately-combed beard.  “It’ll go hard with you.  He’s a stubborn old cove, that Sleepyhorn; administers the law as C‘sar was wont to.  Yesterday he sent seven to the whipping-post; to-day he hangs two ‘niggers’ and a white man.  There is a consolation in getting rid of the white.  I say this because no one loses a dollar by it.”

George, continuing to masticate his bread, says it has nothing to do with him.  He may hang the town.

“If I can do you a bit of a good turn, why here’s your man.  But you must not talk that way—­you must not, George, I assure you!” Mr. Soloman assumes great seriousness of countenance, and again, in a friendly way, takes George by the hand.  “That poignard, George, was yours.  It was picked up by myself when it fell from your hand—­”

“My hand! my hand!” George quickly interposes, his countenance paling, and his eyes wandering in excitement.