Then my
boy went away.
One night I was walking about the park in mad fashion while a hoarse
gale roused a deep chorus among the trees. I could have sworn that my
lad called to me. Then I went back and dropped into The Chequers. The
Ramper said, "Wot cher, yer old bugaboo?" The Wanderer shouted, "Now
let the trumpet to the kettle speak; the kettle to the cannoneer
without. He comes! He comes!"
And I went home and stayed till dawn with the Wanderer. That is the way
we live.
THE WANDERER AGAIN.
Several racing men have warned me against the Wanderer, in their
peculiarly friendly way. They want me to bet with _them_. But I like the
Bohemian, the blackleg, better than I do better men. Moreover, though I
am carefully informed that he is a blackleg, I find him honest. His
story has long been hanging in my mind, and we may as well take it at
once.
Devine's runaway match turned out well for a time. When old Mr. Billiter
came home and heard what had happened he fell in a fit, and, on his
recovery, he went about for a long time moaning, "We'll never hold up
our heads no more.
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