ST. JAMES, left to his own devices, hurried to the Chambers that he used to rent before he went to prison. They were "To Let." He rang the bell, and the porter started back when he saw him.
"Hope you don't want to enter, Sir," said he; "but the Guv'nor gave strict orders, as if you called, that you was not to go in. It ain't my fault, Sir, but the Guv'nor is the Guv'nor!"
Disheartened by this rebuff, he tried the house of a friend, but was so scornfully received, that he made up his mind never to visit another acquaintance. Of course he found that his name had been removed from his Clubs, and not a single individual would recognise him. He was an outcast, and a ruined man. So he walked about the streets until his shoes were in holes, and his last penny exhausted. Then he lay down to sleep. But this was against the regulations, and so he was hustled from pillar to post, until at last he found himself in a very low part of town. He was trudging past a public-house, when who should emerge from its cheerful-looking recesses but GILES. "Hallo!" cried the young man, who seemed the picture of health, "are you down?"
"Yes—very," returned ST. JAMES. "I haven't a friend in the world, and no one will have anything to say to me."
"What a shame!" cried the other. "Why, with me, I have had a rare old time! Everybody has been pleased to see me."
"But hasn't your conviction injured you?"
"Not particularly. I have lots of people who support me. Why, if we were too particular with one another, we shouldn't have a pal in the world! Hope there's nothing wrong."
"Why, don't you call this wrong? Here are you, as jolly as possible, and I—a miserable man!"
"Can't be helped. We are in the same box."
"Are we?" said the semi-genteel Convict. "Well, I should have scarcely believed it! Then, I suppose I must comfort myself with the thought that the same law applies to the rich as the poor."