now he and his hopes and his unknown capabilities have passed away,
deeper than ever plummet sounded. It is a big puzzle. I am a loafer, and
I suppose I shall never be anything else, so it is not for me to solve
the ugly problem.

The Ramper fawned on me, and asked me if I had heard of "that there pore
young bloke wot kicked the bucket upstairs."

I said, "Yes; I fancy he was murdered. Do you know who took the brandy
up to him?"

The Ramper looked very wicked, but merely answered, "'Ow should I know?
He arst me, and I goes and says, 'No, sir; not for a thick 'un.' I see
'ow he was. I've 'ad 'em on myself, and I knowed as 'ow he wasn't up
there for nothing."

The Ramper is undoubtedly a liar.

The Wanderer often asked me to call, for he knows that I have a stiff
flask in my pocket every night. I have pieced out the rest of his story,
and I shall put it into my book when I am less glum. At present I swear
every day that I shall turn temperance lecturer, and spend my money on
the Cause; but, somehow, habit, and my roving blood, are too much for
me. Like all men of my sort, from Burns downward, I can see evils
clearly, and state their nature plainly enough; but when it comes to
keeping clear of them, I resemble my tribe in being rather unhandy at
judicious strategy. _Vogue la galére!_

Three months more have gone and my journals have never been written up,
save in chance scraps. The Wanderer is quite as interesting as ever! I