the man who holds the reins, and cannot get out of electricity and petroleum what has been got out of the pulsations of horses. It comes to us from the railway porters and servants who keep at bay the troublesome multitude by deftly turning into broad farce events which begin seriously. It comes, too, from hotel and restaurant waiters, who see enough of the grim humours of life to become an almost endless source of inspiration. But it is also apparent on the surface. Butcher-boy and baker-boy and shopboy are full of it. They carry their goods along in happy ignorance of the sport they give to those who can note the humorous in life. And the costermonger and itinerant dealer, to be met with almost everywhere, are special products of London who cannot fail to attract. One does not quite meet the counterparts of these people in Paris. Those who take their place there are not so distinctive, and partake more of the characteristics of the average Parisian. They send out, therefore, to the observer only what the average Parisian sends out, and do not stand apart as types of what the city can do in the way of carrying on the humours of the time. Some day, perhaps, there will arise a greater humourist in London, who will penetrate what London produces in this respect; and when this shall happen London will appear a happier and more genial place than is commonly supposed.

There is a somewhat deeper note of reflection on this point, if we care to go into it. The cleavages among the different groups of London inhabitants are apparent on the surface. They are almost non-existent in Paris. Is it, then, that the two cities have reached different standards in this respect; that Paris has heightened the general level to the stage of gaiety and carelessness while London has only succeeded in moving in groups of sharply defined masses? And which of the two results is the better? Perhaps the Paris result may be the dead level of crushed-out lives effervescing into heedlessness, and perhaps the London result may be the forma tion of a new social grouping which is going to have its effect upon national as well as city life. It is hard to determine yet which is the correct diagnosis, or if it is correct in both cases, and still harder to determine whether the differing results are going to lead to different kinds of success or failure. In either case contrasts such as these help us to realise something of what comparative sociology means when applied to two great cities.

Perhaps in these rough jottings of points of comparison between the two great cities of the Western world there may be found food

for sterner reflection than may appear on the surface; perhaps they may turn out to be the notes for a commencing chapter of a new era in history. There is certainly enough material for the deepest thought; for the struggle of life is now in the city communities. There is a great cry gone forth,' Back to the land!' But those who raise it do not get to the cause of the mischief, if mischief it be. It is not an economical cause. It is intellectual. The science and culture of the day are at last penetrating through to the country, and the peasant is yearning to be up and doing. He is sick to death of the inanities which reach him from those who dole out scraps of knowledge sandwiched in between lectures or sermons on subjects which no longer serve as intellectual delights. He claims his right to get to the cities and hear and know what the world is doing now that it is alive in every direction. And this claim lies at the root of all that makes the great cities of the present. It has built up London and Paris, and London, Paris, and all their compeers must see to it that they deal with this claim in a fashion which fully meets the case.

HIS MATE.

THROUGH a repellent country a white road stretched like a bleached backbone, adding to, rather than taking away, the impression of desolation. On this forlorn day there was no colour in the world other than grim neutral tints, low-toned green of fields, here and there bared to the clay; pallid brown of leafless trees, untouched with promises of spring; and snow-threatening sky of March across which the wind hustled tattered clouds. Somewhat back from the road stood a solitary building, neglected and out of repair, a tumble-down board announcing in crooked letters that it was 'To Let.' A line of railway ran along an embankment, but the few trains whizzed by without a pause, at one point crossing an arch under which a road, redder in colour than the larger highway, came brokenly down to meet it.

The land being fairly flat, the white road might be traced for a considerable distance. A man, trudging along, and facing the bitter north wind, saw, far ahead, a speck advancing towards him. Approaching, it resolved itself into two specks, one large, lumbering, and puzzling, the other by comparison minute as a satellite of Jupiter, marked on a chart of the heavens. It was this smaller object which gave Eliot a clue.

'They Poonch an' Judy chaps on t' road again,' he commented. 'Soon back from Rooshby. Maybe they've scent of some merrymakin', though Ah doan't know what, this blasted time o' year. Theer's t' dog, anyway. An' to be the proputty o' two sooch fellows, blest if he ain't t' gamesomest little brute as iver Ah set eyes on! That theer black-faced chap lettin' fly at un, an' he coomin' along wi' his scrooby tail in t' air, an' his ragged ears a-cocked, as peart an' pleased as if hard woords was bones, an' he took 'em for fattenin'.'

He laughed aloud at the recollection, and pushed sturdily against a wind which stung as if it carried ice-splinters. A rise in the ground hid the other travellers, so that when they emerged to sight just where the side road, running redly down under the archway, joined that on which they were moving, Eliot found himself within speaking distance, and in passing flung a brief greeting. The Punch and Judy

man replied by a nod so surly that it seemed to bar further communication, but the next minute he stopped abruptly, setting his four-legged burden on the ground, and furtively passing his sleeve across his face. He had a thick white skin, and black hair lying loosely. His eyes refused to meet the other man's, straying quickly on that side and this, as though keeping restless watch for some expected horror.

'Coldish,' remarked Eliot cheerfully.

'Hot as hell with that on yer back.' He gave a sidelong nod towards the box.

'Where's yer mate, then?'

The man's shifting eyes stopped suddenly in their search and narrowed.

'Wot may you know 'bout my mate?' he growled suspiciously. 'Nowt,' said the other, lifting his eyebrows. You an' he was together yesterday, that's all.'

'Me an' 'im's parted.' He went on with a jerk, as if his tongue were suddenly loosened. 'E'd a preference for keepin' to 'isself, 'e worn't sociable, an' I puts it to you, master, if that's wot's wanted for a gennelman in the Punch and Judy line? Why 'e wor that cantankrus that the very dawg couldn't abide 'im.'

'Couldn't he? Yet he's a friendly little beast,' Eliot returned, stooping to pat him. He drew back his hand, marked with a red stain. He's got hoort though, soomhow,' he went on, staring at it. 'Hurt! That 'e ain't!' said his owner with an oath.

'Bleedin', then,' persisted the other briefly.

If the man were going to swear again he checked himself, flung an uneasy glance at his companion, and picked up the box. Eliot felt under the blood to find a wound, surprised that the animal did not wince. His master now seemed desirous to explain.

'Got skylarking with another dawg yonder,' he said, pointing his thick thumb over his shoulder. 'Come on, yer fool!'

The dog struggled, and Eliot let him go, staring after the pair as the box lurched along the road. Then he glanced at the stain on his hand, and stooped to wipe it in a tuft of frost-bitten grass. 'T' game little varmint,' he said with a laugh.

have bit t'oother badly.'

I reckon he'll

He faced the wind again and went on to Rushby. Returning late that afternoon, as he neared the railway arch, a carter's boy rushed out from under it.

What's oop, Dick?' asked Eliot, collaring him.

The boy wriggled, and told his story as he ran. In a little wood on the other side of the arch a dead man lay in a frozen pool of blood. The carter was staying to watch, while Dick fetched the police and the doctor. When Eliot undertook this mission, and reached the town about a mile away, he saw, propped against the wall of a low inn, the Punch and Judy show. For a moment he hesitated, then

ran on.

At the police station the news caused a stir of not unwelcome. excitement. Two constables started at once, Eliot with them, and, as they passed the inn, he saw Toby cheerfully wagging his tail as usual, and the man furtively watching from the shadow of the box. A sudden impulse made Eliot glance at his own fingers, on one of which still remained a small red smudge. Again he hesitated, and went on.

The carter who kept watch by the dead man had made his observations. He'-they all understood who was meant by he -wor aboot t'oother day with a Poonch an' Judy show. I know un by that lock o' hair'-he pointed to a white streak cutting the dark-' an' there wor anoother chap 'long wi' un, an' a dog.'

The policemen stared at each other.

'That was him in the town,' one said briefly. Coom on, or he'll get away.'

He had got away. The show was there, still stuck against the wall, but man and dog were gone, and it was dark. Nor, although telegrams flew in all directions, could they hit upon their traces.

It must have been a couple of weeks later when one wet night he walked into the police station drunk, Toby, as usual, at his heels. 'What's this?' said the inspector, startled.

'Damn it all,' said the man, dropping into a chair, I'd sooner be scragged than 'ave the 'orrors.'

Afterwards they found that he had taken refuge in the deserted and tumble-down house which so crookedly proclaimed itself 'To Let'; had gone boldly into the town of an evening and bought food and strong drink. He boasted that if he could have borne it longer he could have got clear away, and perhaps he was right. As it was he was hanged, and the Punch and Judy show impounded at the police station until they could decide what to do with it.

Eliot housed Toby, who might have grown fat on a very different life from the sworn-at, kicked, half-starved existence through which he had so bravely wagged his stump of a tail. It may be, however, that even ill-usage finds its compensation in habit, for