marching off now with his own bat (he has never deigned to use one
of Joe's) in his hand. What an ill-conditioned hobgoblin it is!
And yet there is something bold and sturdy about him too. I should
miss Jem Eusden.

Ah, there is another deserter from the party! my friend the little
hussar--I do not know his name, and call him after his cap and
jacket. He is a very remarkable person, about the age of eight
years, the youngest piece of gravity and dignity I ever encountered;
short, and square, and upright, and slow, with a fine bronzed flat
visage, resembling those convertible signs the Broad-Face and the
Saracen's-Head, which, happening to be next-door neighbours in the
town of B., I never knew apart, resembling, indeed, any face that is
open-eyed and immovable, the very sign of a boy! He stalks about
with his hands in his breeches pockets, like a piece of machinery;
sits leisurely down when he ought to field, and never gets farther
in batting than to stop the ball. His is the only voice never heard
in the melee: I doubt, indeed, if he have one, which may be partly
the reason of a circumstance that I record to his honour, his
fidelity to Jem Eusden, to whom he has adhered through every change
of fortune, with a tenacity proceeding perhaps from an instinctive
consciousness that the loquacious leader talks enough for two. He
is the only thing resembling a follower that our demagogue
possesses, and is cherished by him accordingly. Jem quarrels for
him, scolds for him, pushes for him; and but for Joe Kirby's
invincible good-humour, and a just discrimination of the innocent
from the guilty, the activity of Jem's friendship would get the poor
hussar ten drubbings a day.

But it is growing late. The sun has set a long time. Only see what