“Good-bye,” he said earnestly. He was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. He stood still, almost breathless. Better get a dress. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior.
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