brightness, and boldness, and gallantry about him that arrested one's
attention at first sight. I think I should have taken him for a soldier,
had I not already gathered it from the last words of their conversation.

"Who is your friend?" I heard the new-comer whisper.

To which the other replied:--"Haven't the ghost of an idea."

Presently he took out his pocket-book, and handing me a card, said:--

"We are under the mutual disadvantage of all chance acquaintances. My
name is Dalrymple--Oscar Dalrymple, late of the Enniskillen Dragoons. My
friend here is unknown to fame as Mr. Frank Sullivan; a young gentleman
who has the good fortune to be younger partner in a firm of merchant
princes, and the bad taste to dislike his occupation."

How I blushed as I took Captain Dalrymple's card, and stammered out my
own name in return! I had never possessed a card in my life, nor needed
one, till this moment. I rather think that Captain Dalrymple guessed
these facts, for he shook hands with me at once, and put an end to my
embarrassment by proposing that we should take a boat, and pull a mile
or two up the river. The thing was no sooner said than done. There were
plenty of boats below the iron bridge; so we chose one of the cleanest,
and jumped into it without any kind of reference to the owner, whoever
he might be.

"_Batelier, Messieurs? Batelier_?" cried a dozen men at once, rushing
down to the water's edge.

But Dalrymple had already thrown off his coat, and seized the oars.