THE farmer's story. 35 



a strange expression he half-eyes me; just as much as to 

 say— 



^' Come; now; you know you oug-ht to give me a shiliing\ 

 because you know you oug-ht not !" 



There is no resisting* such logiC; and so I 

 compromise myself and the matter with a four- 

 penny-bit. 



John looks me a thank'ee that I can't write. 



Yes ! of course, there is a gentleman's servant going- to 

 Southampton, and a soldier going- to Gosport. I never 

 saw a second-class carriage yet on this line without them. 

 The contrast; too, is remarkably fine — the very genteel 

 air of the one, and the rough-and-ready out-of-bounds 

 bearing of the other. They are a long way off; though, 

 this time ; and I seem fated to run down with a full- 

 blown old lady; who has spread out her black silk dress 

 on the most unmistakable understanding of '^ there's no 

 room here !" 



But there iS; still —at least, so thinks a fresh-colom'ed 

 happy-visaged youngish gentleman, who tumbles liimself 

 in at the last moment with a bag, a rug*; and a hamper, 

 all at once, to the serious discomposure of the black 

 drapery. He is a good-natured felloW; too ; appears to 

 think nothing of the little annoyance he has caused, but 

 offers me a share of the rug with a ready-handed hearti- 

 ness that might lead a strang*er to think he had rather 

 expected to find me there than not. By looks, and 

 especially by his style of entering, I should say he was 

 one of that doomed race — an agriculturist. 



"Seen Bell, sir?" said the fated one, with a jolly 

 smile running all over his face. It was a Saturday 

 morning, I should say, and I was going to — well, never 

 mind where, and never mind for what. 



d2 



