"COLE, I shall want you at my quarters immediately after inspection."

"Very good, sir."

The scene of this remarkable dialogue was the Crimea before Sebastopol; the speakers were our old friend Captain Redfern of Her Majesty's ——th Lancers, and Private John Cole of the same regiment, and regimental servant to Captain Redfern aforesaid.

Young John had proved to be too heavy and too tall a man for the friendly recruiting Sergeant's corps, so he had been posted to a crack Lancer regiment then serving in the Crimea. In this regiment Captain Redfern held a commission, and as he went out in command of recruits, of whom young John was one, he was under the necessity of selecting one of them to act as a regimental servant during the voyage. His choice fell upon young John, who being extremely lazy and, moreover, utterly indifferent as to the future in store for him, accepted the situation.

Redfern and young John got on exceedingly well together. John's superior education made him extremely useful to his master in many ways, and as Redfern was a particularly open-handed man, and not very exacting as a master, he and John became, in a distant sort of way, attached to each other. Redfern spent much of his spare time in poring over deeds and other legal documents referring to the estate of which he had become possessed through Pintle's death; and as John was formerly in the habit of assisting his father in Mr. Pintle's office, he had picked up sufficient technical knowledge to make himself useful as an interpreter whenever Redfern (whose legal ideas were crude and elementary) found himself at a stand-still.

Captain Redfern's regiment was posted on the heights above Balaklava, but as he was attached temporarily to the staff of a general officer, his duties as aide-de-camp brought him continually on to the scene of action before Sebastopol. He had on this occasion been in attendance on his general at a divisional field-day in which his own regiment took part, and he availed himself of an opportunity of interchanging the few words already recorded, with his regimental servant before the parade was dismissed.

At the termination of the parade in question, young John cleaned his horse and accoutrements, and then hurried off to Redfern's tent. He found his master in the act of sealing a goodly packet which appeared to contain a bundle of papers.

"Beg pardon, sir," said young John, saluting, "I believe you wanted me."

"Yes," said Redfern, "I want you particularly. Come in and sit down on that chest."

Young John obeyed.

"I believe," said Redfern, "you're a man to be trusted."

"I hope so, sir," said young John.

"I hope so, too. Well, I'm going to trust you. But in the first place I must enjoin you to utter secrecy as to what I am about to say to you, until the time arrives when you may speak."

"You may trust me, sir; you may, indeed. I'll never breathe a word of it until you give me leave."

"Very good. Now listen. The attack is to be made to-night by the Second and Light Division. You will not be wanted, but I shall, for the general's brigade forms part of the attacking column. It will all be the orders in half an hour. I don't know whether or not you believe in predestination, nor do I care, but I do, and that is sufficient for my purpose. John Cole, I die to-night."

"I sincerely hope not, sir."

"Don't interrupt me. I die to-night; that, at least, is my firm impression. Now this is what I want you to do. I want you to take charge of this packet, which I now address to you. When I am dead you will open it, and act according to the instructions therein contained. If it should happen that I survive, I shall require it of you again, until I feel disposed to give it into your possession once more. Now may I trust you with this?"

"Indeed you may, sir, I'll take great care of it, but I sincerely trust it will not be in my keeping many hours."

"I hope not, my man, but we shall see. Now if after the attack I do not return to quarters, get leave to look after me: bring me in if you find me, and whatever you do, for God's sake don't leave my body in the open air longer than you can help. Now you can go. I shall want Bessie at half-past ten."

Young John saluted, and left the tent with the packet.

That night as Captain Redfern was carrying a message from one of the attacking columns to the reserve, he was struck by a rifle-ball, which entered his back and came out above his left arm. He died on the field within an hour of receiving the wound; and so his prophecy was verified.

Young John carried out his master's instructions faithfully. Shortly after receiving intelligence of Redfern's death he opened the packet, after having first satisfied the committee of officers that sat upon the dead man's effects, that it was duly addressed to him in Captain Redfern's handwriting. To his intense astonishment he found that it was directed to Mrs. Pintle. He was not aware of the relationship that existed between Mr. Pintle, and his late master, for although Captain Redfern was well known by repute to old Johnny long before Pintle's death, young John had never heard of his existence until he joined the ——th Lancers.

A memorandum, addressed to young John, accompanied the other enclosure. It was to the following effect:—

JOHN COLE, — When I am dead, take the enclosed packet to Mrs. Pintle, 74, Russell Square, London, as soon as you reach England. If there is any chance of your being killed before you leave the Crimea, entrust it to a comrade upon whom, you can rely. If the attack to-night succeeds, it will probably not be necessary to do so. If you know no one else in whom you can place implicit confidence, give it to the Colonel.

I hereby make you, Private John Cole, C troop of Her Majesty's ——th Lancers, the legatee of all my moveables in camp, with the exception of the gold watch I usually wear, which I leave to poor Annie Blake. Her address is High Street, Little Petherington. And I hereby appoint you the executor of this my last will and testament.

HERBERT REDFERN,
Capt. H.M. ——th Lancers.

The Crimean war was at an end, and the troops were on their way home again. Thinned and shattered as they were, they yet sufficed to afford evidence of the noble stuff they had left behind them, on Cathcart's Hill and in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. As they marched through great towns in their tattered uniform, with bear-skins and shakoes half shot away, their faces bronzed, and covered with ragged beard, and, above all, with their colours shot off almost to the pole, carried by dirty, ragged lads, who still somehow looked like gentlemen — lads who had already seen more misery and sickness in their young lives of twenty summers than the oldest spectator in the enthusiastic throng of civilians that gathered to welcome the old troops home again — as these sturdy warriors tramped through the English towns they had little expected to see again, women went into hysterics, and strong men, after shouting themselves hoarse with a kind of mad welcome that let itself go free to take what form it would, threw themselves down upon the grass, and there lay prone, and wept like women. For each man who saw a brother, or a friend, in those thinned and broken ranks, saw one whom he had hardly reckoned on ever seeing again; and he who counted no personal friends or relations among those rows of shattered warriors, saw thousands who had endeared themselves to him by their heroic pluck in battle, and, above even that, by their heroic and unmurmuring endurance of pain, privation, cold, disease, and hunger. And it was no disgrace to the men of peace that they did so weep, for even the staunchest heroes in that battle-thinned band — men who had laughed at the Russian shell, and laid wagers as to where it would fall; men of the "thin red line," who had fought at Balaklava and lit their cigars on the parapet of the Redan, marched that summer into Hyde Park, and as the Queen pinned the Cross of Valour over their sturdy hearts, choked themselves into tears that no physical anguish could have wrung from them.

Young John had risen in the service since the death of Redfern. He was now Troop Sergeant, and one of the smartest men in the squadron. His regiment was quartered at Hounslow on their return, and he was attached to the troop stationed at the old barracks at Kensington. His first care on reaching London was to find his father and mother. He had from time to time sent small sums of money to them, but he had never heard from them in reply, and it was with the apprehension of learning the details of some sad misfortune that he knocked at the old house in Great Queen Street.

The same drabby servant-girl opened the door, but she did not recognize young John in the strapping, set-up soldier, with the thick brown beard, who stood before her. She knew nothing of Johnny Pounce's whereabouts. He and Mrs. Pounce had left Great Queen Street eighteen months ago, owing much rent, and nobody in the house had heard of them since. She shouldn't wonder if they'd got into trouble. She had heard something about a will, and people said that they were no better than they ought to be. Oh, of course he could leave a message if lie liked, but he might as well leave one for the Lord Mayor of London.

Young John turned away with an aching heart, for the full sense of his ingratitude in leaving them at the critical moment, burst upon him. He next called at Russell Square, with the object of placing Captain Redfern's packet into Mrs. Pintle's hands. But Mrs. Pintle had long since left the house in Russell Square, for it was a much larger establishment than she, in her reduced circumstances, could afford to keep up. The footman who opened the door told him that when Mrs. Pintle left she gave directions that all letters directed to her late residence should be forwarded to an address in Michael's Place, Brompton, but that was ever so many months ago, and she might not be there now. However, he had better go there and ascertain her present address if she had moved. So young John walked back to the Strand, and mounted a Brompton omnibus, which put him down at the address to which he had been directed.

He found Mrs. Pintle in drawing-room apartments in Michael's Place. He obtained admission to her without difficulty, for the weak-eyed flunkey had been dismissed with the rest of the household, as soon as Mrs. Pintle gave up all hope of finding her husband's will. She was reclining on a horsehair sofa of decidedly serious presence, and was still in mourning, but this time it was for her nephew.

She was surprised at seeing a brown-faced, sturdy soldier enter the room, and her astonishment was not diminished when he announced himself as a soldier of the late Captain Redfern's regiment, for Captain Redfern and she had never been on particularly friendly terms, and since Mr. Pintle's death they had come to open war. The mourning that she wore was not by any means the result of emotion at that officer's death, but sprung from a species of natural taste for tombs, and everything that pertained thereunto.

"What is your business with me, soldier?" she asked.

"Beg pardon, ma'am; have I the honour of speaking to Mrs. Pintle?"

"You have."

"I'm the bearer of this parcel from the late Captain Redfern. He directed me to place it in your hands as soon as I returned to England. I only arrived four days ago, and I've availed myself of the first leave of absence I could get to bring it to you."

And young John touched his forehead, and wheeled about to depart.

"Stop," she said, "you must wait until I see what it is about."

And she attempted to open the parcel, but her hands trembled so that she could not unfasten the knots, so young John whipped out a pocket-knife, and solved the difficulty after the original Gordian receipt. The enclosure was contained in another wrapper, and upon this second wrapper being hastily torn asunder, there tumbled out of it a note addressed to Mrs. Pintle, together with the Will of the late Josiah Pintle!

Mrs. Pintle was one of those hard-faced ladies who have schooled their countenances to obey them implicitly. Mrs. Pintle's face was in a state of perfect discipline, and expressed no astonishment whatever. Not so, however, her voice.

"My God! my husband's will!"

Young John could scarcely believe the ears that conveyed Mrs. Pintle's exclamation to his brain, and felt much more disposed to trust to the eyes that told him that, judging from Mrs. Pintle's countenance, nothing extraordinary had happened. However, the same eyes subsequently contradicted themselves as he read the endorsement, "Will of Josiah Pintle, Esq."

"Mr. Pintle's will, ma'am!" he exclaimed; "I had no idea of that; he didn't tell me what it was. Why, my father is down in that for a thousand pounds!"

"And who is your father?"

"Pounce, ma'am ; Johnny — I mean John Pounce, ma'am — the late Mr. Pintle's confidential clerk."

"Then your name is Pounce?"

"My real name is, ma'am; I enlisted, shortly after Mr. Pintle's death, as John Cole; but my real name is Pounce."

Mrs. Pintle, after satisfying herself that the will was genuine, proceeded to open the accompanying note. It was to the following effect:—

Before Sevastopol, 1856.
AMELIA PINTLE,

Long before this reaches you I shall be a dead man. We were never on friendly terms, and the words I am about to write will not tend to mend matters. Whether they do, or whether they do not, is a question that will not in any way disturb the skeleton that by that time will be bleaching in this infernal country.

You always considered me an extravagant and unconscientious scoundrel, and I give you credit for your discernment. I don't attempt to exculpate myself, because I do not care enough for you or for anybody in the world to make it worth my while to do so. As I have already stated, by the time this is opened I shall be dead beyond all possibility of doubt. I live only for life, and posthumous honour or dishonour is a matter upon which I am most completely indifferent. As evidence of my sincerity, I not only enclose Josiah Pintle's will, but I also give an account of the manner in which it came into my possession.

On the 24th of December, 1854, I dined with Mr. Pintle. On that occasion you were, you may remember, confined to your room by some sort of indisposition. After dinner, as Pintle and I sat over our wine, we talked over family matters, and, among others, of the disposition of his property after death. He told me that he had that evening brought his will to Russell Square with the express view of reading it over to me, in whom, you will remember, he reposed (contrary, I am bound to say, to your advice) much more confidence than I either desired or deserved.

He opened the document and began to read it to me as I sat with my back towards him, for he had turned round to get the full benefit of the light of the chandelier. He read for perhaps a couple of minutes, and then stopped: I concluded that he was considering the advisability of not reading to me the ensuing paragraph which might perhaps refer to a trifling legacy which he intended to bestow upon me. After a pause, I asked him why he did not go on, and, as he made no answer, I turned round to repeat my question. He was dead.

I alarmed the household; but, before they answered my summons, it occurred to me that, as I was his heir-at-law, and moreover deeply in debt, and further, as nobody but myself was aware of the fact that the will had been taken from the office, I might as well take possession of it and destroy it altogether. Accordingly I took possession of it, and, in due course, of the bulk of Mr. Pintle's property. On second thoughts I did not destroy the will, for, as I was under orders for the Crimea, I thought it possible that I might be killed, and, in the event of that melancholy occurrence, neither the will nor the property would be of any further use to me, whereas they might both prove of considerable value to yourself and the other legatees. So they are quite at your service.

HERBERT REDFERN,
Capt. H.M. ——th Lancers.

Mrs. Pintle folded the letter deliberately, restored it to its envelope, and placed the envelope in her pocket.

"I shall not want you, Pounce," she said. "If, as you say (and I see no reason to disbelieve it), your father is a legatee for a thousand pounds, he will, of course, receive it when the will is proved; that, however, will probably be, under the circumstances, a work of time. In the interim, as I have done your father the injustice of believing that he that he did not act with perfect openness in the matter, I shall be happy to make him a small allowance. You had better send him to me."

"If I can discover him, ma'am, I will, but he's left his old lodgings, and no one knows where he has gone to!"

"Then find him. You had better advertise. Now you can go."

Young John left Mrs. Pintle's house with a heart almost as heavy as when he entered it, for there appeared but little chance of his finding old Johnny and his wife, and, moreover, he had made the discovery that his late master, for whose memory he entertained a sincere regard, was, in point of fact, an unmitigated scoundrel.

He had the rest of the afternoon before him, and he spent the early part of it in sending advertisements to the principal daily papers. It was four o'clock before this was satisfactorily accomplished, and then he took a steamboat from Blackfriars intending to go to Chelsea, and thence to Kensington. But the boat did not go higher than Westminster bridge, so he landed there, and determined to take the omnibus at Charing Cross.

As he walked down Parliament Street, he had to pass the scene of his former labours, the Pauper Philosophy Office; which appeared, as far as he could see, to be getting on uncommonly well without him. There was the same old over-fed office-keeper at the door, there were the same two showy Caucasians waiting on the steps, and there were all the twelve Examiners looking out of the twelve windows, as of yore. There was the Lord President's carriage at the door, and there, no doubt, was the Lord President in the Secretary's room, learning a practical reply to the eminently practical question, which would be asked in the House that night, "Whether there was any truth in the statement that it was the practice of the Board for the Dissemination of Pauper Philosophy to educate and train young paupers to an extraordinary pitch of pauper perfection, at an enormous public expense, with the express view of qualifying such paupers to impart instruction in the rudiments of Pauper-Philosophy, and that accomplished, to take away from their sphere of duty such Pauper Philosophers as may seem to the Board to be peculiarly well qualified to train and educate other young paupers, and reward them with Assistant-Clerkships in the Office for the Dissemination of Pauper-Philosophy?"

As young John speculated on this possibility, it occurred to him that he would turn into the office and look up some of his old friends. He passed the Caucasians and the office-keeper unrecognized, and made his way up to the garret in which he had worked for the five years that preceded his dismissal.

It was just as he had left it, for promotion in the Pauper Philosophy Office was a work of many years. As he entered the room he was greeted with a stare of surprise, which was directed not so much at him (for he was unrecognized) as at the uniform he wore.

"Don't you know me, lads?' he said, "Pounce — John Pounce!"

"John Pounce!" exclaimed the five clerks. "Lord! you don't say so?"

And sufficiently hearty greetings ensued, for John had been a sort of favourite in his way.

Inquiries as to what events had occurred since he left the office followed; and one, more hearty than the rest, saw in young John's return a reason for standing much beer.

"Where's Shab?" asked the hearty clerk. "Send him here, somebody!"

And somebody went for Shab.

"Who's Shab?" said Johnny.

"Shab? Oh! you know — no, he's since your time. Oh! he's a rum un is Shab. He runs herrands, and fetches beer, and posts letters, and does hod jobs. Shab ain't his name — its affectionate for shabby genteel so called 'cause he looks like a Member of Parliament down on his luck."

And the door opened, and Shab introduced his head.

"Want me, gentlemen? Anything I can do?"

"Here, Shab, old cock, a gallon of beer, and you so much as look at it and I'll knock your empty old head off. D'ye hear?"

This was a coarse speech, but it was not said unkindly. Shab was a general favourite, for he was always at hand when wanted, and never grumbled at his honorarium. He had seen better days, as the saying is, having originally been employed on odd jobs in the Pauper Philosophy Office as a law-stationer's clerk; but old age came upon him, and his hand trembled so that he became unfit for his work. So he became a hanger-on to the office in which he had temporarily served, and picked up occasional coppers as a kind of out-door message carrier.

"Why you look out of sorts ; had your dinner, Shab?" asked a clerk.

"No, sir, no — not yet."

"Thought not; you look hungry. Here's a tJuly 28, 2011

"Looks hungry," thought young John, "by Jove, he is hungry, too. Here, my man," added he, aloud, "here's a shilling for you, and in God's name get something to eat."

A clerk from, another room burst into the office. "What's this I hear about Jack Pounce come back again?" said the new comer. "Jack, old chap, doosid glad to see you. Why what are you doing in a uniform?"

The answer was interrupted by an extraordinary proceeding on the part of poor old Shab.

"Jack! Young John! O God!"

And poor old Johnny Pounce fell into his son's arms.

*      *      *      *      *

So old, so feeble, so broken, had cheery little Johnny Pounce become since he went to the Bad! His rusty old suit of clothes was the cast-off of a waiter, just as he himself was the cast-off of society. He was living in a miserable attic in Tothill Fields, and his once buxom little wife was in the fever ward of the Westminster Hospital.

There cannot be much need to tell how it all ended. How his son told him of the discovery of the missing will, how old Johnny and he went to Mrs. Pounce's bedside, and broke the news to her, gently at first, and then all at once with a sort of spasmodic rush; how Mrs. Pintle did her best (in a faded kind of way) to atone for the unjust suspicions which she had cast upon the old man; how the sick woman recovered her strength by slow degrees, until she was able to leave the Hospital for the old rooms in Great Queen Street; how the will was proved beyond dispute, after a lapse of six months or so; how One Thousand Pounds were paid to old Johnny, without deduction, by Mrs. Pintle, and how a handsome annuity was purchased for him with the money; how young John was bought out of the service, and enshrined in a high desk in the office of Pintle and Sims' successors, having been articled to the new firm by Mrs. Pintle herself, who further undertook to make him an allowance until he was admitted — are matters that would take many pages to tell in detail, and matters, moreover, which the reader will probably feel inclined to take for granted.

And so it was that Johnny Pounce, having gone to the Bad, and having spent a considerable time at the Bad when he got there, eventually came back to the Good again.