the time), to prove a complete alibi, it would have gone hard with him. I didn't know Biggs's boy at that time, but, from what I have seen of them since I should not have attached much importance to that alibi myself.

Biggs's boy, as I have said, came round the corner. He was evidently in a great hurry when he first dawned upon the vision, but, on catching sight of Harris and me, and Montmorency, and the things, he eased up and stared. Harris and I frowned at him. This might have wounded a more sensitive nature, but Biggs's boys are not, as a rule, touchy. He came to a dead stop, a yard from our step, and, leaning up against the railings, and selecting a straw to chew, fixed us with his eye. He evidently meant to see this thing out.

In another moment, the grocer's boy passed on the opposite side of the street. Biggs's boy hailed him: "Hi! ground floor o' 42's a-moving."

The grocer's boy came across, and took up a position on the other side of the step. Then the young gentleman from the boot-shop stopped, and joined Biggs's boy; while the empty-can superintendent from The Blue Posts took up an independent position on the curb.

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·They ain't a-going to starve, are they?” said the gentleman from the boot-shop.

"Ah! you'd want to take a thing or two with you," retorted "The Blue Post," "if you was agoing to cross the Atlantic in a small boat."

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They ain't a-going to cross the Atlantic," struck in Biggs's boy; "they're a-going to find Stanley."

By this time quite a small crowd had collected, and people were asking each other what was the matter. One party (the young and giddy portion of the crowd) held that it was a wedding, and pointed out Harris as the bridegroom; while the elder and more thoughtful among the populace inclined to the

idea that it was a funeral and that I was probably the corpse's brother.

At last, an empty cab turned up (it is a street where, as a rule, and when they are not wanted, empty cabs pass at the rate of three a minute, and hang about, and get in your way), and packing ourselves and our belongings into it, and shooting out a couple of Montmorency's friends, who had evidently sworn never to forsake him, we drove away midst the cheers of the crowd, Biggs's boy shying a carrot after us for luck.

We got to Waterloo at eleven, and asked where the eleven-five started from. Of course nobody knew; nobody at Waterloo ever does know where a train is going to start from, or where a train when it does start is going to, or anything about it. The porter who took our things thought it would go from number two platform, while another porter, with whom he discussed the question, had heard a rumor that it would go from number one. The station-master, on the other hand, was convinced it would start from the local.

To put an end to the matter, we went up stairs, and asked the traffic superintendent, and he told us that he had just met a man who said he had seen it at number three platform. We went to number three platform, but the authorities there said that they rather thought that train was the Southampton express, or else the Windsor loop. But they were sure it wasn't the Kingston train, though why they were sure it wasn't they couldn't say.

Then our porter said he thought that must be it on the high-level platform; said he thought he knew the train. So we went to the high-level platform, and saw the engine-driver, and asked him if he was going to Kingston. He said he couldn't say for certain, of course, but that he rather thought he was. Anyhow, if he wasn't the 11:05 for Kingston,

he said he was pretty confident he was the 9:32 for Virginia Water, or the 10 A.M. express for the Isle of Wight, or somewhere in that direction, and we should all know when we got there. We slipped half-a-crown into his hand, and begged him to be the 11:05 for Kingston.

"Nobody will ever know, on this line," we said, "what you are, or when you're going. You know the way, you slip off quietly and go to Kingston."

"Well, I don't know, gents," replied the noble fellow; "but I suppose some train's got to go to Kingston, and I'll do it. Gimme the half-crown."

Thus we got to Kingston by the London and Southwestern Railway.

We learnt, afterward, that the train we had come by was really the Exeter mail, and that they had spent hours at Waterloo looking for it, and nobody knew what had become of it.

Our boat was waiting for us at Kingston just below bridge, and to it we wended our way, and round it we stored our luggage, and into it we stepped.

"Are you all right, sir?" said the man.

"Right it is," we answered; and with Harris at the sculls and I at the tiller-lines, and Montmorency, unhappy and deeply suspicious, in the prow, out we shot on to the waters which, for a fortnight, were to be our home.

DOUGLAS WM. JERROLD

DOUGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD, English journalist, was born in London, in 1803, died there, in 1857. His first acquaintance with letters came from setting type for a newspaper. He was a student of life and manners, and in 1821, his comedy, "More Frightened Than Hurt," was one of the successes of the London stage. He was at once promoted to an editorial position on his paper. Black-Eyed Susan" another of his popular pieces. He wrote much for "Punch," and established "The Illuminated Magazine." Among his best works are: "Punch's Letters to His Son," "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," and "Men of Character."

CA

CAUDLE'S WEDDING-DAY

was

AUDLE, love, do you know what next Sunday is? No? You don't! Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can't you guess, darling? Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute—just think. What! and you don't know now? Ha! If I hadn't a better memory than you I don't know how we should ever get on. Well, then, pet, shall I tell you, dear, what next Sunday is? Why, then, it's our wedding-day. What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle? I don't see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan, I'm sure it isn't you. No: I rather think it's I who ought to groan!

Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You were a very different man then, Mr. Caudle. What do you say? And I was a very different woman? Not at all; just the same. Oh, you needn't roll your

head about on the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'm altered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure-certainly not. Don't tell me that I couldn't talk at all then: I could talk just as well then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's you have made me talk. What do you say? You're very sorry for it? you do nothing but insult me.

Caudle,

Ha! You were a good-tempered nice creature fourteen years ago, and would have done anything for me. Yes, yes; if a woman would be always cared for she should never marry. There's quite an end of the charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you're courting us; but once married, how soon you pull our wings off! No, Mr. Caudle, I'm not talking nonsense; but the truth is, you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talk nonsense but you. Now, it's no use your turning and turning about in that way; it's not a bit of-What do you say? You'll get up? No, you won't, Caudle; you'll not serve me that trick again, for I've locked the door and hid the key. There's no getting hold of you in daytime; but here you can't leave me. You needn't groan, Mr. Caudle.

Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk comfortably. After all, love, there's a good many folks who, I dare say, don't get on half so well as we've done. We've both our little tempers, perhaps, but you are aggravating, you must own that, Caudle. Well, never mind; we won't talk of it; I won't scold you now. We'll talk of next Sunday, love. We never have kept our wedding-day, and I think it would be a nice day to have our friends. What do you say? They'd think it hypocrisy? No hypocrisy at all. I'm sure I try to be comfortable; and if ever a man was happy, you ought to be. No, Caudle, no; it isn't nonsense to keep wedding-days; it isn't