A WOULD-BE ESTATE PEOPEIETOR OF TTTE 
OLDEN TIME, 
offers besides Mr Diddler’s, but he kept his resolution, 
and stuck to coffee ; an obstinate fellow was he. 
Years rolled on. Mr Diddler had retired; he had saved 
something, and had a small pension, and he lived in London, 
in the usual way of retired orientalists, spending a good 
deal of time at his club. Coming into his club one day, 
he saw a stranger seated behind a newspaper ,- a bottle of 
sparkling Moselle and tumbler stood on the table, and an 
open case of cigars, which Mr Diddler, who was a judge, 
saw were the finest Havannahs. He sighed, as he ordered 
a glass of brandy and water, and a twopenny cheroot. 
Seated on the opposite side of the table, his eyes caught 
the back of the newspaper in the hands of the stranger, 
and he read The Ceylon Overland Observer, Memories of old 
times came over his mind, and he addressed the stranger, 
“How does the coffee enterprise get on?’ “ Nothing could 
be better,” was the reply. “No better investment going,” and 
then he commenced to talk of the good hit he had made.” 
As he talked, and described his land, which he had bought 
for 20/ an acre, Mr Diddler trembled. Could it be the laud 
he had sold. So he made inquiry as to how he had bought 
it. “ Bought it from an agency firm, who had instructions 
from its owner to sell it for what it would bring. Cost 
me something about a pound an acre, and refused twenty 
not long ago for the uncultivated portion of it ; have got 
300 acres in full bearing, and after having paid all expenses 
gives me an average income of over £3,000 annually.” “Who 
was the owner?” says Mr Diddler. “Why,” replies he, “I for- 
get, but on looking over the title deeds it seemed a rather 
queer name. Diddle, Diddled, or something like that.” 
Diddled indeed!” cried Mr Diddler, ^ ‘ diddled by myself ! 
Bad enough when one is diddled by another, but really 
intolerable when one diddles himself! — ” and he slapped his 
clenched fist on the table, rose up, walked about the room, 
then rang the bell furiously, and when the waiter appeared 
ordered him off as an inquisitive scoundrel. “Diddled 
indeed ! I must slightly alter the name, change the letter 
V fora ^d,’ and sign myself ‘Jeremy Diddled.’ But, by the 
bye, did you ever meet with an old friend of mine, a 
young man; at least, he once was young, called — ?” “Oh ! yes” 
says the stranger, “every one either knows or has heard of 
him; he never lost heart, worked his way up, and has a 
very good estate ; he is now in the old country, some- 
where,” 
The party of young men whom Mr Diddler met at the 
Gampola rest-house are all dead long ago, except one. He 
is not a young man now, but this story is still green and 
young in his memory. Who was he ? That young man 
whom Mr, Diddler treated for the toothache, at the Gampola 
rest-house, and who gave Mr Diddler such good advice 
about not seUing his lan^ wag just ycur old acquaintance 
P. D. Millie.* 
