“Ha! youngsters!  Do you know the tide has turned?  I thought you had had enough of that.”

“I thought I might find my aralia!” sighed Fergus.  “The tide was almost as low.”

Just then there resounded from behind a projecting rock a peal of undesirable singing, a shout of laughter, and an oath, with—-

“Holloa, those little beasts of teetotallers have hooked it.”

There were confused cries-—"Haul ’em back!  Drench ’em.  Give ’em a roll in the mud!” and Adrian shrank behind his uncle, taking hold of his coat, as there burst from behind the rock a party of boys, headed by the two cadets, all shouting loudly, till brought to a sudden standstill by the sight of “Parson!  By Jove!” as the Horner mid muttered, taking out his pipe, while Edward Harewood mumbled something about “Horner’s brother’s tuck-out.”  One or two other boys were picking up the remains of the feast, which had been on lobsters, jam tarts, clotted cream, and the like delicacies dear to the juvenile mind.  The two biggest school-boys came forward, one voluble and thick of speech about Horner’s tuck-out, and “I assure you, sir, it is nothing—-not a taste.  Never thought of such-—” Just then the other lad, staggering about, had almost lurched over into the deepening channel; but Clement caught him by the collar and held him fast, demanding in a low voice, very terrible to his hearers—-

“Where does this poor boy live?”

It was Adrian who answered.

“Devereux Buildings.”

“You two, Adrian and Fergus, run to the quay and fetch a cab as near this place as it can come,” said Clement.  “You little fellows, you had better run home at once.  I hope you will take warning by the shame and disgrace of this spectacle.”

The boys were glad enough to disperse, being terrified by the condition of the prisoner, as well as by the detection; but the two who were encumbered with the baskets containing the bottles, jam-pots, and tin of cream remained, and so did the two young sailors, Horner saying civilly—-

“You’ll not be hard on the kids, sir, for just a spree carried a little too far.”

“I certainly shall not be hard on the children, whom you seem to have tempted,” was the answer as they moved along; and as the younger Horner turned towards a little shop near the end of the steps to restore the goods, he asked-—"Were you supplied from hence?”

“Yes,” said Horner, who was perhaps hardly sober enough for caution.  “Mother Butterfly is a jolly old soul.”

Looking up.  Clement saw no licence to sell spirituous liquors under the name of Sarah Schnetterling, tobacconist.  The window had the placard ‘Ici on parle Francais’, and was adorned in a tasteful manner with ornamental pipes, fishing-rods and flies, jars of sweets, sheets of foreign stamps, pictorial advertisements of innocuous beverages.  A woman with black grizzling hair, fashionably dressed, flashing dark eyes, long gold ear-rings, gold beads and gaudy attire, came out to reclaim her property.  A word or two passed about payment, during which Clement had a strange thrill of puzzled recollection.  The bottles bore the labels of raspberry vinegar and lemonade, but he had seen too much not to say—-