adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a

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basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and

partially wringing them out, he folded them on his head in a

manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and said, “Now I

am ready!”

“Not much boiling down to be done tonight, Memory,” said Mr.

Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers.

“How much?”

“Only two sets of them.”

“Give me the worst first.”

“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”

The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one

side of the drinking table, while the jackal sat at his own paperbestrewn

table proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and

glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table

without stint, but each in a different way; the lion for the most part

reclining with his hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or

occasionally flirting with some lighter document; the jackal, with

knitted brows and intent face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did

not even follow the hand he stretched out for his glasswhich

often groped about, for a minute or more, before it found the glass

for his lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand became so

knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up, and

steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and

basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp head-gear as

no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by

his anxious gravity.

At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the

lion, and proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care

and caution, made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it,

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and the jackal assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed,

the lion put his hands in his waistband again, and lay down to

meditate. The jackal then invigorated himself with a bumper for

his throttle, and a fresh application to his head, and applied

himself to the collection of a second meal; this was administered to

the lion in the same manner, and was not disposed of until the

clock struck three in the morning.

“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said

Mr. Stryver.

The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been

steaming again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.

“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown

witnesses today. Every question told.”

“I always am sound; am I not?”

“I don’t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some

punch to it and smooth it again.”

With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.

“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said