when you mention the middle of the night, T’otherest Governor,” growled Mr. Riderhood, winding up his monotonous summary of his wrongs, “throw your eye on this here bundle under my arm, and bear in mind that I’m a walking back to my Lock, and that the Temple laid upon my line of road.”

Bradley Headstone’s face had changed during this latter recital, and he had observed the speaker with a more sustained attention.

“Do you know,” said he, after a pause, during which they walked on side by side, ’that I believe I could tell you your name, if I tried?”

“Prove your opinion,” was the answer, accompanied with a stop and a stare. “Try.”

“Your name is Riderhood.”

“I’m blest if it ain’t,” returned that gentleman. “But I don’t know your’n.”

“That’s quite another thing,” said Bradley. “I never supposed you did.”

As Bradley walked on meditating, the Rogue walked on at his side muttering. The purport of the muttering was: “that Rogue Riderhood, by George! seemed to be made public property on, now, and that every man seemed to think himself free to handle his name as if it was a Street Pump.” The purport of the meditating was: “Here is an instrument. Can I use it?”

They had walked along the Strand, and into Pall Mall, and had turned up-hill towards Hyde Park Corner; Bradley Headstone waiting on the pace and lead of Riderhood, and leaving him to indicate the course. So slow were the schoolmaster’s thoughts, and so indistinct his purposes when they were but tributary to the one absorbing purpose — or rather when, like dark trees under a stormy sky, they only lined the long vista at the end of which he saw those two figures of Wrayburn and Lizzie on which his eyes were fixed — that at least a good half-mile was traversed before he spoke again. Even then, it was only to ask:

“Where is your Lock?”

“Twenty mile and odd — call it five-and-twenty mile and odd, if you like — up stream,” was the sullen reply.

“How is it called?”

“Plashwater Weir Mill Lock.”

“Suppose I was to offer you five shillings; what then?”

“Why, then, I’d take it,” said Mr. Riderhood.

The schoolmaster put his hand in his pocket, and produced two half-crowns, and placed them in Mr. Riderhood’s palm: who stopped at a convenient doorstep to ring them both, before acknowledging their receipt.

“There’s one thing about you, T’otherest Governor,” said Riderhood, faring on again, “as looks well and goes fur. You’re a ready-money man. Now;” when he had carefully pocketed the coins on that side of himself which was furthest from his new friend; “what’s this for?”

“For you.”

“Why, o’ course I know that,” said Riderhood, as arguing something that was self-evident. “O’ course I know very well as no man in his right senses would suppose as anythink would make me give it up agin when I’d once got it. But what do you want for it?”