healthy work in the fields could not hurt me, or interfere much with my
prospects. Besides, I was not quite sure that my prospects were really
worth thinking about just now. Certainly, I had always lived
comfortably, spending money, eating and drinking of the best, and
dressing well--that is, according to the London standard. And there was
my dear old bachelor Uncle Jack--John Smith, Member of Parliament for
Wormwood Scrubbs. That is to say, ex-Member; for, being a Liberal when
the great change came at the last general election, he was ignominiously
ousted from his seat, the Scrubbs proving at the finish a bitter place
to him. He was put out in more ways than one, and tried to comfort
himself by saying that there would soon be another dissolution--thinking
of his own, possibly, being an old man. I remembered that I had rather
looked forward to such a contingency, thinking how pleasant it would be
to have all that money, and cruise about the world in my own yacht,
enjoying myself as I knew how. And really I had some reason to hope. I
remember he used to wind up the talk of an evening when I dined with him
(and got a check) by saying: "My boy, you have talents, if you'd only
use 'em." Where were those talents now? Certainly they had not made me
shine much during the last few hours.

Now, all this seemed unsubstantial, and I remembered these things dimly,
like a dream or a story told to me in childhood; and sometimes, when
recalling the past, I seemed to be thinking about ancient
history--Sesostris, and the Babylonians and Assyrians, and that sort of
thing. And, besides, it would be very hard to get back from a place
where even the name of London was unknown. And perhaps, if I ever should
succeed in getting back, it would only be to encounter a second Roger
Tichborne case, or to be confronted with the statute of limitations.
Anyhow, a year could not make much difference, and I should also keep my
money, which seemed an advantage, though it wasn't much. I looked up: