in the administration of Carew’s affairs, besides filling an office which was by no means a sinecure, in that of his master of the ceremonies.  Many a rudeness in that house would have been bitterly avenged, and many a quarrel would have had a serious termination, but for the good offices of Parson Whymper.  Nor would Mr. Byam Ryll have been considered by every body to earn an easy livelihood in making jests out of every occasion, to tickle the fancy of a dull-witted audience and of a patron, as often as not, morose; yet the flesh-pots of Egypt had attracted both these men to the Squire’s service, their poverty as well as their will consenting; and in exchange for meat and drink, and lodging of the best, they had sold themselves into slavery.  Upon the whole, they were well disposed to one another; the bond of intelligence united them against the rich “roughs” with whom they had to deal; they tilted together, side by side, against the canaille; yet each, from the bitter consciousness of his own degradation, took pleasure in the humiliation or discomfiture of the other, at the rude hands of their common master.

“Profession,” said Chandos, in reply to Carew’s last remark; “gad, your ancient friend is lucky to have found one in these days.  They tell me that no young gentleman can now get his living without answering questions, writing down things, drawing maps, and passing—­What the deuce do they call them?”

“Hanged if I know,” said the Squire.  “Ask Byam; he knows every thing.”

“I say, Mr. Byam,” drawled the young man, somewhat insolently, but without being aware that he was addressing a stranger by his Christian name, “Carew says you know every thing.  What is it that a gentleman is now obliged to go through before he can get any of these snug things one used to get for the asking?  What is the confounded thing one has to pass?”

“Muster,” answered Ryll, derisively, as though it was a riddle.

Carew laughed aloud.  The nearer a retort approached to a practical joke, provided it was not at his own expense, the better he liked it.

“What did the old beggar say?” inquired Mr. Frederick Chandos, his fair face crimson with anger.

“He asked for the mustard; he didn’t hear you,” answered the Squire, mischievously; “he never does hear a fellow who lisps.”

“I asked you, Mr. Byam,” repeated the young man with tipsy gravity, “what is the name of those examinations?”

“The name of the gentleman on my left, Mr. Chandos, is Ryll, and not Byam—­except to his intimate friends,” interposed the chaplain; “and the name you are in want of is competitive.”

“That’s it,” said the young man, slapping the table, and forgetting both his mistake and his anger in the unaccustomed acquisition of an idea.  “Competitive examination is what they call it Well, you know, there was my young brother—­confound him!—­looking to me to pay his bills; and, in fact, having nothing to live upon, poor devil, except what I gave him.  So, of course, I was anxious to get him off my hands.”