Many a droll story can he tell, for he has "padded the hoof" from one end of England to the other; he knows every lodging-house from Newcastle-on-Tyne to Plymouth.

He is a graceless dog, fond of a joke, a laugh and a story; he is honest enough and intelligent enough for anything.

But of regular life, discipline and work he will have none.

By and by, after the cooking is all done, he will want to give a performance and take up a collection.
There are a couple, male and female, who tramp the country lanes; the farm haystacks or outbuildings have been their resting-places during the summer, but approaching winter has sent them back to London.
You see that they have got a tattered copy of Moody and Sankey's hymns, which is their stock-in-trade.

They have at different lodging-house "services" picked up some slight knowledge of a limited number of tunes, now they are trying to commit the words to memory.
To-morrow they will in quiet streets be whining out "Oh, where is my boy to-night ?" or "Will you meet me at the Fountain ?" Look again--here is a shabby-genteel man who lives by his wits.