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"Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning,

to his jackal; "mix another bowl of punch; I have something to

say to you."

Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night

before, and the night before that, and a good many nights in

succession, making a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers

before the setting in of the long vacation. The clearance was

effected at last; the Stryver arrears were handsomely fetched up;

everything was got rid of until November should come with its

fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and bring grist to the mill

again.

Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much

application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull

him through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine

had preceded the towelling; and he was in a very damaged

condition, as he now pulled his turban off and threw it into the

basin in which he had steeped it at intervals for the last six

hours.