He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. Langley is getting up, and coming this way. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. Here, take this youngster, Terry; my legs are lighter than old Nab's. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was.
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