"I'm not overmich in love wi' that chap," he says; "and sure's I'm a
right-down Cockney, he hates you like pizen. Give 'im a wide berth, yer
honour, and doan't hev nothin' to do wi' 'im."

"Oh," I replied, "he can't hurt me."

"Don't know, yer honour. You and he's got your peepers fixed in the same
place, and scuse me; but if you give 'im a chance, he'll beat yer. He'd
charm a serpiant vith thews peepers o' hisn."

"Aren't you afraid yourself, then?"

"He can't hurt me, for I'm too tough, and I'm noan sighin' for anybody,
I ain't; and I hain't a got a good-lookin' jib, and--"

But here Voltaire entered the room and spoke to Tom Temple.

"Simon," said Tom a second after, "what colour are the chestnut mare's
eyes?"

Simon heaved himself, struggled, looked vacant, and said dreamily,
"They're loike women, and--waccination, you--you--" But a film came over
his eyes, and he was unconscious.

Again there was deathly silence in the room, and all eyes were turned
towards Voltaire, who had walked close to Simon Slowden.

"The man is not very susceptible," said Voltaire, "consequently I cannot
do so much with him as I should had he been more highly organized; but I
can at least convince sceptics. You will see," he went on, "that I have