adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
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