“Then off with it, Ralph,” cried my volatile friend, jumping up and looking hastily round for the bell-rope. Not being able to find it, my bell-pull being an unobtrusive knob and not a rope, he rushed to the door, unlocked it, darted out, and uttered a tremendous roar, which was followed by a clatter and a scream from old Agnes, whom he had upset and tumbled over.

It was curious to note the sudden change that took place in Peterkin’s face, voice, and manner, as he lifted the poor old woman, who was very thin and light, in his arms, and carrying her into the room, placed her in my easy-chair. Real anxiety was depicted in his countenance, and he set her down with a degree of care and tenderness that quite amazed me. I was myself very much alarmed at first.

“My poor dear old woman,” said Peterkin, supporting my landlady’s head; “my stupid haste I fear you are hurt.”

“Hech! it’s nae hurt—it’s deed I am, fair deed; killed be a whaumlskamerin’ young blagyird. Oh, ma puir heed!”

The manner and tone in which this was said convinced me that old Agnes was more frightened than injured. In a few minutes the soothing tones and kind manner of my friend had such an effect upon her that she declared she was better, and believed after all that she was only a “wee bit frichtened.” Nay, so completely was she conciliated, that she insisted on conveying the note to the post-office, despite Peterkin’s assurance that he would not hear of it. Finally she hobbled out of the room with the letter in her hand.

It is interesting to note how that, in most of the affairs of humanity, things turn out very different, often totally different, from what we had expected or imagined. During the remainder of that evening Peterkin and I talked frequently and much of our old friend Jack Martin. We recalled his manly yet youthful countenance, his bold, lion-like courage, his broad shoulders and winning gentle smile, and although we knew that six years must have made an immense difference in his personal appearance—for he was not much more than eighteen when we last parted—we could not think of him except as a hearty, strapping sailor-boy. We planned, too, how we would meet him at the coach; how we would stand aside in the crowd until he began to look about for us in surprise, and then one of us would step forward and ask if he wished to be directed to any particular part of the town, and so lead him on and talk to him as a stranger for some time before revealing who we were. And much more to the same effect. But when next day came our plans and our conceptions were utterly upset.

A little before two we sauntered down to the coach-office, and waited impatiently for nearly twenty minutes. Of course the coach was late; it always is on such occasions.

“Suppose he does not come,” said I.

“What a fellow you are,” cried Peterkin, “to make uncomfortable suppositions! Let us rather suppose that he does come.”

“Oh, then, it would be all right; but if he does not come, what then?”

“Why, then, it would be all wrong, and we should have to return home and eat our dinner in the sulks, that’s all.”

As my companion spoke we observed the coach come sweeping round the turn of the road about half a mile distant. In a few seconds it dashed into the town at full gallop, and finally drew up abruptly opposite the door of the inn, where were assembled the usual group of hostlers and waiters and people who expected friends by the coach.

“He’s not there,” whispered Peterkin, in deep disappointment—“at least he’s not on the outside, and Jack would never travel inside of a coach even in bad weather, much less in fine. That’s not him on the back-seat beside the fat old woman with the blue bundle, surely! It’s very like him, but too young, much too young. There’s a great giant of a man on the box-seat with a beard like a grenadier’s shako, and a stout old gentleman behind him with gold spectacles. That’s all, except two boys farther aft, and three ladies in the cabin. Oh, what a bore!”

Although deeply disappointed at the non-arrival of Jack, I could with difficulty refrain from smiling at the rueful and woe-begone countenance of my poor companion. It was evident that he could not bear disappointment with equanimity, and I was on the point of offering some consolatory remarks, when my attention was attracted by the little old woman with the blue bundle, who went up to the gigantic man with the black beard, and in the gentlest possible tone of voice asked if he could direct her to the white house.

“No, madam,” replied the big man hastily; “I’m a stranger here.”

The little old woman was startled by his abrupt answer. “Deary me, sir, no offence, I hope.”

She then turned to Peterkin and put the same question, possibly under a vague sort of impression that if a gigantic frame betokened a gruff nature, diminutive stature must necessarily imply extreme amiability. If so, she must have been much surprised as well as disappointed, for Peterkin, rendered irascible by disappointment, turned short round and said sharply, “Why, madam, how can I tell you where the white house is, unless you say which white house you want? Half the houses of the town are white—at least they’re dirty white,” he added bitterly, as he turned away.

“I think I can direct you, ma’am,” said I, stepping quickly up with a bland smile, in order to counteract, if possible, my companion’s rudeness.

“Thank you, sir, kindly,” said the little old woman; “I’m glad to find some little civility in the town.”

“Come with me, ma’am; I am going past the white house, and will show you the way.”

“And pray, sir,” said the big stranger, stepping up to me as I was about to move away, “can you recommend me to a good hotel?”

I replied that I could; that there was one in the immediate vicinity of the white house, and that if he would accompany me I would show him the way. All this I did purposely in a very affable and obliging tone and manner; for I hold that example is infinitely better than precept, and always endeavour, if possible, to overcome evil with good. I offered my arm to the old woman, who thanked me and took it.

“What!” whispered Peterkin, “you don’t mean me to take this great ugly gorilla in tow?”

“Of course,” replied I, laughing, as I led the way.

Immediately I entered into conversation with my companion, and I heard “the gorilla” attempt to do so with Peterkin; but from the few sharp cross replies that reached my ear, I became aware that he was unsuccessful. In the course of a few minutes, however, he appeared to have overcome his companion’s ill-humour, for I overheard their voices growing louder and more animated as they walked behind me.

Suddenly I heard a shout, and turning hastily round, observed Peterkin struggling in the arms of the gorilla! Amazed beyond measure at the sight, and firmly persuaded that a cowardly assault had been made upon my friend, I seized the old woman’s umbrella, as the only available weapon, and flew to the rescue.

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