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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