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GOSSIP.

TEN YEARS OLD.

In the triangular space left between the side of a steamer and a pair of barrels, many years ago, there was jammed a boy, myself, travelling from London to Rotterdam under care of the steward. It was, or I was, a pale boy with blue eyes and yellow hair, aged ten. I thought that I had chosen with remarkable skill an entrenched position, parted by the barrels from an impertinent world too ready with its vulgar consolations, and very handy to the mighty basin of the sea, for I was worse than qualmish. As for the steward, I disowned his patronage. I was a free boy on a free element. Accustomed up to that date to an income of chance shillings and half-crowns that never became warm in my pocket before they were torn out to feed an unknown monster bearing the hard name of Savingsbank, I knew that whatever adventures might befall, whether from whales or pirates, on the way to Rotterdam, the ogre Savingsbank could not stride through the ocean after me, though I had money in my jacket, money in my waistcoat, and gold sewn up in the waistband of my trousers. I belonged to the monied world and paid my way. That the steward was a buccaneer in disguise, a very eminent sea robber, I soon found out. But was he not my most obedient, humble vassal ?

"One service, steward, you may do me," I said, "now that we

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