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 entered, Tom's friends had not only had fresh pots of porter, but had mounted cheroots and German pipes.

"Here he is!" exclaimed one of them. "Now, what do you think of it? I knew that Tob wouldn't cut us so."

"Cut you!" returned Tom, "Dever!—Dow, I say," he added, turning to Sylvester, "well!—what are you goidg to stadd?"

"Why, let's have a bottle of champagne," replied Sylvester.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Tom's friends, "that's the sort of stuff after all."

And the bar-maid—who was continually on the qui vive, waited for no direct order, but sent into the cellar for half a dozen at once.

Sylvester had wisely resolved not to touch it, and turning to the match-man, who still sat behind him, said, in a whisper, "Do you like champagne?"

"Never tasted none your honour," replied the man, "but des say I do."

"Very well, then you shall have some, but do not let either of these gentlemen see you take it."

The man winked and rubbed his hands; and the champagne was brought, and when the bar-maid had duly filled Sylvester's glass, he promptly conveyed it behind him.

When the glasses had been twice filled, the bottle was empty, and Sylvester imagined that Tom would then start; but Tom would have another, and when that had been drank, they would have a bottle all round.

"Now," said Sylvester to the man behind him, at the same time placing a shilling in his hand, "do not take a glass more than you think will do you good. If you do not like to drink it, you can easily throw it behind the cask."

Throw it behind the cask!—throw champagne behind the cask! In the judgment of that man, the idea was monstrous! He, however, merely said, "All right your honour. In all In all my born days, I never tasted nothing like it."

Bottle after bottle was now opened and drank, and Sylvester kept continually urging Tom to go; but Tom as continually said, "Ted bidites bore: there's pledty of tibe yet—off in ted bidites." But while the tall glasses continued to be filled, Tom's "ted bidites" frequently expired, indeed so frequently that Sylvester became extremely anxious, and at length said, "Now Tom, indeed, I must go: my aunt I know is most impatient for my return."

"Well thed," said Tom, "we'll bizzle. This is the last bottle: a couple bore roudds, add thed we'll go."

The man behind Sylvester now began to sing, and although his voice was harsh, while he had not the most remote idea of tune, it manifestly fell upon his ears as sweetly as if it had been celestial music.

"Hold your doise!" cried Tom, who failed to appreciate its beauty. "What do you kick up that bodstrous row here for?"

Heedless of this mild remonstrance, the fellow went on with his song, until two of Tom's friends, receiving the hint from the bar-maid, seized him by the collar with the view of showing him out. They had scarcely