COMPANION PICTURE

S

ydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that selfsame night, or

morning, to his jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have

something to say to you,” Sydney had been working double

tides that night, and the night before, and the night before that,

and a good many nights in succession, making a grand clearance

among Mr. Stryver’s papers before the setting in of the long

vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver arrears

were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until

November should come with its fogs atmospheric and fogs legal,

and bring grist to the mill again.

Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much

application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him

through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had

preceded the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition,

as he now pulled his turban off and threw it into the basin in

which he had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours.

“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the

portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the

sofa where he lay on his back.

“I am.”

“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will

rather surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not