His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. . “I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. Jackson?" said Wood, significantly. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced.
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