“Teaching!” repeated George; “why she can’t be over sixteen.”

He was going to say more, when some one slapped him rudely on the shoulder, calling out, “How are you, old feller, and what is there in Boston to interest such a scapegrace as I am?”

Looking up, Billy saw before him Henry Lincoln, exquisitely dressed, but bearing in his appearance evident marks of dissipation.

“Why, Henry,” exclaimed George, “how came you here?  I supposed you were drawing lampblack caricatures of some one of the tutors in old Yale.  What’s the matter?  What have you been doing?”

“Why you see,” answered Henry, drawing his cigar from his mouth and squirting, by accident of course, a quantity of spittle over Billy’s nicely blacked shoes; “Why you see one of the sophs got his arm broken in a row, and as I am so tender-hearted and couldn’t bear to hear him groan, to say nothing of his swearing, the faculty kindly advised me to leave, and sent on before me a recommendation to the old man.  But, egad I fixed ’em.  I told ’em he was in Boston, whereas he’s in Chicopee, so I just took the letter from the office myself.  It reads beautifully.  Do you understand?”

All this time, in spite of the tobacco juice, Henry had apparently taken no notice of Billy, whom George now introduced, saying, he believed they were old acquaintances.  With the coolest effrontery Henry took from his pocket a quizzing glass and applying it to his eye, said, “I’ve absolutely studied until I’m near-sighted, but I don’t think I ever met this chap before.”

“Perhaps, sir,” said Billy haughtily, “it may refresh your memory a little to know that I was once the owner of Tasso!”

“Blast the brute,” muttered Henry, meaning Billy quite as much as the dog; then turning to George, he asked, “how long the old folks had been in Chicopee.”

“Several weeks, I think,” answered George; and then, either because he wanted to hear what Henry would say, or because of a re-awakened interest in Mary Howard, he continued, “By the way.  Henry, when you came so unceremoniously upon us, we were speaking of a young girl in Chicopee whom you have perhaps ferreted out ere this, as Bender says she is fine looking.”

Henry stroked his whiskers, which had received far more cultivation than his brains, stuck his hat on one side, and answered.  “Why, yes, I suppose that in my way I am some thing of a b’hoy with the fair sex, but really I do not now think of more than one handsome girl in Chicopee, and that is Ella Campbell, but she is young yet, not as old as Jenny—­altogether too small fry for Henry Lincoln, Esq.  But who is the girl?”

Billy frowned, for he held Mary’s name as too sacred to be breathed by a young man of Henry Lincoln’s character; while George replied, “Her name is Mary Howard.”

“What, the pauper?” asked Henry, looking significantly at Billy, who replied, “The same, sir.”

“Whew-ew,” whistled Henry, prolonging the diphthong to an unusual length.  “Why, she’s got two teeth at least a foot long, and her face looks as though she had just been in the vinegar barrel, and didn’t like the taste of it.”