a wholesome red or brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half closed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance that seemed to say, `Now you won't overreach me: you want to, but you won't.' His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward; in the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of cheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck into the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially called in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour them with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the possibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or interference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a buffalo.

`That,' he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer barbarian and foreigner, `is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.'

Martin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to insinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously `darned' himself. But remembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the pleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.

Their new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in cutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to himself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his old plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark and Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek, where it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it quite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug, and holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man who had not lived in vain, that it was `used up considerable.' Then he tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into another; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the pattern on Martin's waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture of that garment.

`What do you call this now?' he asked.

`Upon my word' said Martin, `I don't know what it's called.'

`It'll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?'

`I really don't know.'

`In my country,' said the gentleman, `we know the cost of our own produce.'

Martin not discussing the question, there was a pause.

`Well!' resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during the whole interval of silence: `how's the unnat'ral old parent by this time?'

Mr. Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the impertinent English question, `How's your mother?' would have resented it instantly, but for Martin's prompt interposition.

`You mean the old country?' he said.

`Ah!' was the reply. `How's she? Progressing back'ards, I expect, as usual? Well! How's Queen Victoria?'

`In good health, I believe,' said Martin.

`Queen Victoria won't shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named,' observed the stranger, `No.'

`Not that I am aware of. Why should she?'