n8 THE PIGEON-FANCIER. 



less for gardening — stooping makes his back 

 ache. He will not grow cucumbers — they 

 disagree with him. He has nothing to do. He 

 has abundant energy, but no channel by which 

 to run it off. He grows irritable and moody 

 in his aimless leisure. He rises late in the 

 morning — reads the newspaper at the break- 

 fast table — goes out for a stroll, and talks 

 politics with any idle neighbour he can lure into 

 a discussion on topics they know nothing about. 

 He takes a nap in the afternoon — dines sumptu- 

 ously every evening at seven, washing down 

 one course after another with wines of the 

 choicest brand, and then steps into his carriage 

 and is driven to a place of entertainment to kill 

 the residue of the evening in mild dissipation 

 and artificial excitement. Occasionally, to sub- 

 due an attack of indigestion, he takes a trip on 

 the Continent, but returns home disgusted with 

 the sightseeing and the parlez vous-ing. 



' I know retired men of this type. A hobby 

 was not one of the fine arts they cultivated in 

 early life. The secret ambition of Mr. Pen- 

 dennis was always to be a gentleman — their 

 ambition is similar. But they were not to the 

 manner born, neither can they now accommodate 

 themselves to it. Like a badly made jelly they 



