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Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's

great ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and

Michaelmas, might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a

case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in

his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court; they went the

same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual orgies

late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad

day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a

dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as

were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would

never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he

rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.

"Ten o'clock, sir," said the man at the tavern, whom he had

charged to wake him--"ten o'clock, sir."

"What's the matter?"

"Ten o'clock, sir."

"What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?"

"Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you."