Then Jane came in, and laid the cloth,—­a coarse one enough,—­and Tom picked a cold mutton bone with a steel fork, and drank his pint of beer from the public-house, and lighted his father’s pipe, and then his own, and vowed that he had never dined so well in his life, and began his traveller’s stories again.

And in the evening Mark came in, with a bottle of the ’21 in his coat-tail pocket; and the three sat and chatted, while Mary brought out her work, and stitched listening silently, till it was time to lead the old man upstairs.

Tom put his father to bed, and then made a hesitating request—­

“There is a poor sick man whom I brought down with me, sir, if you could spare me half-an-hour.  It really is a professional case; he is under my charge, I may say.”

“What is it, boy?”

“Well, laudanum and a broken heart.”

“Exercise and ammonia for the first.  For the second, God’s grace and the grave:  and those latter medicines you can’t exhibit, my dear boy.  Well, as it is professional duty, I suppose you must:  but don’t exceed the hour; I shall lie awake till you return, and then you must talk me to sleep.”

So Tom went out and homeward with Mark and Mary, for their roads lay together; and as he went, he thought good to tell them somewhat of the history of John Briggs, alias Elsley Vavasour.

“Poor fool!” said Mark, who listened in silence to the end.  “Why didn’t he mind his bottles, and just do what Heaven sent him to do?  Is he in want of the rhino, Tom?”

“He had not five shillings left after he had paid his fare; and he refuses to ask his wife for a farthing.”

“Quite right—­very proper spirit.”  And Mark walked on in silence a few minutes.

“I say, Tom, a fool and his money are soon parted.  There’s a five-pound note for him, you begging, insinuating dog, and be hanged to you both!  I shall die in the workhouse at this rate.”

“Oh father, you will never miss—­”

“Who told you I thought I should, pray?  Don’t you go giving another five pounds out of your pocket-money behind my back, ma’am.  I know your tricks of old.  Tom, I’ll come and see the poor beggar to-morrow with you, and call him Mr. Vavasour—­Lord Vavasour, if he likes—­if you’ll warrant me against laughing in his face.”  And the old man did laugh, till he stopped and held his sides again.

“Oh, father, father, don’t be so cruel.  Remember how wretched the poor man is.”

“I can’t think of anything but old Bolus’s boy turned poet.  Why did you tell me, Tom, you bad fellow?  It’s too much for a man at my time of life, and after his dinner too.”

And with that he opened the little gate by the side of the grand one, and turned to ask Tom—­

“Won’t come in, boy, and have one more cigar?”

“I promised my father to be back as quickly as possible.”

“Good lad—­that’s the plan to go on—­