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."

"Oh! I remember. Very well, very well."

After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again,
which the man dexterously combated by stirring
the fire continuously for five minutes, he got up,
tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned
into the Temple, and, having revived himself
by twice pacing the pavements of King's Benchwalk
and Paper-buildings, turned into the
Stryver chambers.

The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these
conferences, had gone home, and the Stryver
principal opened the door. He had his slippers
on, and a loose bedgown, and his throat was
bare for his greater ease. He had that rather
wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes,
which may be observed in all free livers of his
class, from the portrait of Jeffries downward,
and which can be traced, under various disguises
of Art, through the portraits of every Drinking
Age.

"You are a little late, Memory," said Stryver.

"About the usual time; it may be a quarter
of an hour later."

They went into a dingy room lined with books
and littered with papers, where there was a
blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob,
and in the midst of the wreck of papers a table
shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy,
and rum, and sugar, and lemons.

"You have had your bottle, I perceive,
Sydney."

"Two to-night, I think. I have been dining
with the day's client; or seeing him dine—it's
all one!"

"That was a rare point, Sydney, that you
brought to bear upon the identification. How
did you come by it? When did it strike you?"

"I thought he was rather a handsome fellow,
and I thought I should have been much the
same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck."

Mr. Stryver laughed, till he shook his
precocious paunch. "You and your luck, Sydney!
Get to work, get to work."

Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress,
went into an adjoining room, and came back with
a large jug of cold water, a 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 to-night,
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 paper-bestrewn
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 glass—which 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 these pilgrimages to the jug and
basin, he returned with such eccentricities of
damp head-gear as no words can describe; which
were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
gravity.

At length the jackal had got together a
compact repast for the lion, and proceeded to offer
it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
made his selections from it, and his remarks upon
it, and the jackal assisted both. When the
repast was fully discussed, the lion put his hands
in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate.
The jackal then invigorated himself with a
bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
to his head, and applied himself to the collection
of a second meal; this was administered to
the lion in the same manner, and was not
disposed of until the clocks struck three in the
morning.

"And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper
of punch," said Mr. Stryver.

The jackal removed the towels from his head,
which had been steaming again, shook himself,
yawned, shivered, and complied.

"You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter
of those crown witnesses to-day. Every question
told."

"I always am sound; am I not?"

"I don't gainsay it. What has roughened
your temper? Put some punch to it and smooth
it again."

With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again
complied.

"The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury
School," said Stryver, nodding his head over him
as he reviewed him in the present and the past,
"the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and
down the next; now in spirits and now in
despondency!"

"Ah!" returned the other, sighing: "yes!
The same Sydney, with the same luck. Even
then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom
did my own."

"And why not?"

"God knows. It was my way, I suppose."
He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his
legs stretched out before him, looking at the
fire.

"Carton," said his friend, squaring himself at
him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had