was really gin.

Lastly, the new-comer's eyes wandered to the landlady, and in her he beheld the representative Whitechapel virago, so well-known in the police-courts of that district. She was tall and lean, fierce in looks, vehement of tongue, prodigal of gestures: a slattern in dress and a tyrant in manner. Having chased the girl with the bucket into the back parts of the house, she strode forward with the swing of a grenadier, and the insolence of a bully, to face the new guest.

"An' wot may y' want?" she demanded, harshly scornful.

"Bed and board for the night," replied the tramp, curtly.

"Ho! An' the money? Eh? D'y think I'm a-goin' t'waste five bob."

The man produced two half-crowns.

"A meal now, a bed later, and breakfast at nine in the morning."

"Five, an' praps bad money," muttered the woman, biting one of the coins, "sevening y' mean."

"Five shillings is all I mean to give. If you don't," he made a motion to take back the money.

The woman, who was really overpaid, closed her broad red hand sharply, and nodded contemptuously.

"But y' don't git th' bes' bedroom, thet bein' taiken by a gent, es is a gent, an' not a broken down toff. 'Ow do I know es y're respectable?"

"I certify," said a grand mellow voice from one settle, "that Mr. Angus Herries is well-born and honest!" Then with a sudden plunge into the Scottish dialect. "Dinna ding the laddie wi' sic blatter, ye fule wumon."

Herries wheeled round at the sound of those trumpet tones, and stared at the stout old rascal, who sipped his gin with a knowing leer.

"Gowrie," he gasped, quite taken aback. "Mr. Gowrie."

"Ye've a quick eye, my laddie. Michael Gowrie it is, though ye micht ca' me the Reverend Michael Gowrie, an' nae burn the tongue o' ye. Sit ye doon, my mon, an' we'll hae a dram togither for the sake o' auld lang syne." He hummed the last seven words.

Herries sat on the opposite settle, next to the untidy youth, who cast sidelong, disdainful looks on him, but took 

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