Mr. Crisparkle concentrated his attention on a handsome face, much sunburnt; and the ghost of some departed boy seemed to rise, gradually and dimly, in the room.
The gentleman saw a struggling recollection lighten up the Minor Canon’s features, and smiling again, said: “What will you have for breakfast this morning? You are out of jam.”
“Wait a moment!” cried Mr. Crisparkle, raising his right hand. “Give me another instant! Tartar!”
The two shook hands with the greatest heartiness, and then went the wonderful length—for Englishmen—of laying their hands each on the other’s shoulders, and looking joyfully each into the other’s face.
“My old fag!” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“My old master!” said Mr. Tartar.
“You saved me from drowning!” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“After which you took to swimming, you know!” said Mr. Tartar.
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Crisparkle.
“Amen!” said Mr. Tartar.
And then they fell to shaking hands most heartily again.
“Imagine,” exclaimed Mr. Crisparkle, with glistening eyes: “Miss Rosa Bud and Mr. Grewgious, imagine Mr. Tartar, when he was the smallest of juniors, diving for me, catching me, a big heavy senior, by the hair of the head, and striking out for the shore with me like a water-giant!”
“Imagine my not letting him sink, as I was his fag!” said Mr. Tartar. “But the truth being that he was my best protector and friend, and did