"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger, "every body seems to
have forgotten poor Slingsby!"
"Why, no, sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"
"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his head.
Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling, thrust out his hand,
gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other
hand on a bench, "Sit down there," cried he, "Tom Slingsby!"
A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby was regaled
with the best cheer that the farm-house afforded; for he was hungry as
well as wayworn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedestrian. The
early playmates then talked over their subsequent lives and
adventures. Jack had but little to relate, and was never good at a
long story. A prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for
narrative; it is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world,
that are the true heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the paternal
farm, followed the same plough that his forefathers had driven, and
had waxed richer and richer as he grew older. As to Tom Slingsby, he
was an exemplification of the old proverb, "a rolling stone gathers no
moss." He had sought his fortune about the world, without ever finding
it, being a thing oftener found at home than abroad.
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