accurately have told. It was rumoured that he was the commissioner in
America of the London Times. He was credited with being a Fellow of
the Royal Geographical Society. That he had a history no one could
doubt who saw him come down the street with his broad hat, his sweeping
cloak, his gauntlets, his neatly varnished boots.

In reality Colonel Henry Battersleigh lived, during his city life, in a
small, a very small room, up more than one night of stairs. This room,
no larger than a tent, was military in its neatness. Battersleigh,
bachelor and soldier, was in nowise forgetful of the truth that
personal neatness and personal valour go well hand in hand. The bed, a
very narrow one, had but meagre covering, and during the winter months
its single blanket rattled to the touch. "There's nothing in the world
so warm as newspapers, me boy," said Battersleigh. Upon the table,
which was a box, there was displayed always an invariable arrangement.
Colonel Battersleigh's riding whip (without which he was rarely seen in
public) was placed upon the table first. Above the whip were laid the
gauntlets, crossed at sixty degrees. On top of whip and gloves rested
the hat, indented never more nor less. Beyond these, the personal
belongings of Battersleigh of the Rile Irish were at best few and
humble. In the big city, busy with reviving commerce, there were few
who cared how Battersleigh lived. It was a vagrant wind of March that
one day blew aside the cloak of Battersleigh as he raised his hat in
salutation to a friend--a vagrant wind, cynical and merciless, which
showed somewhat of the poverty with which Battersleigh had struggled
like a soldier and a gentleman. Battersleigh, poor and proud, then
went out into the West.

The tent in which Colonel Battersleigh was now writing was an old one,
yellow and patched in places. In size it was similar to that of the