It chanced
that this act of prowess had not passed unwitnessed.
On a bench near by there was seated a shopkeeper's
assistant out of employ, a diminutive, cheerful, red-
headed creature by the name of Hemstead. He was the
last man to have interfered himself, for his discretion
more than equalled his valour: but he made haste to
congratulate Carthew, and to warn him he might not
always be so fortunate.
"They're a dyngerous lot of people about this park. My
word! it doesn't do to ply with them!" he observed, in
that RYCY AUSTRYLIAN English, which (as it has
received the imprimatur of Mr. Froude) we should all
make haste to imitate.
"Why, I'm one of that lot myself," returned Carthew.
Hemstead laughed, and remarked that he knew a gentleman
when he saw one.
"For all that, I am simply one of the unemployed," said
Carthew, seating himself beside his new acquaintance,
as he had sat (since this experience began) beside so
many dozen others.
"I'm out of a plyce myself," said Hemstead.
"You beat me all the way and back," says Carthew.
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