The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “What are you doing?” he asked. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. Taking a firm grasp of his pistol, Gerald eased back, let go the handle of the door, and at the same instant, swung his booted foot. It would be the wrappered world almost at its best. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. He halted,—looked fearfully around,—stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, "I don't like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. I have weird skin.
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