neighbourhood, who was reckless with his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.
"Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—you've been putting some old maid's rubbish into the sale," murmured Mr Toller, getting close to the auctioneer. "I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon."
"Immediately, Mr Toller. It was only an act of benevolence which your noble heart would approve. Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot 235. Now, gentlemen, you who are connoissures, you are going to have a treat. Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his staff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstanding recent events which have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be bold to say—for a man in my line must not be blown about by political winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our own time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men."
"Who painted it?" said Mr Powderell, much impressed.
"It is a proof before the letter, Mr Powderell—the painter is not known," answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his last words, after
