innumerable shop windows, besides assisting at sundry out-door exhibitions. He witnessed hairs, selected from the heads of promiscuous street boys, cut in two by a razor sharpened with diamond dust; he beheld grease-stains removed from coat collars with magical rapidity; he saw the Caoutchouc family form a human pyramid, so that the topmost member was enabled to survey the internal economy of a third floor in Rupert Street, Haymarket; he admired the skill of the starving artists (expelled from the Royal Academy by the jealousy of the Hanging Committee) who draw fish and moonlight scenes in chalk on the street pavement; finally, about five, p.m., he found himself in the Strand again, somewhat tired and very hungry: suddenly a face passed him in the throng, which he thought he knew. He looked back; the face looked back, too, and was staring at him over its shoulder. Another minute, and a mutual recognition and shaking of hands took place. Jack Dorking was delighted to meet his old College chum, Reuben Fowler. Sooth to say, they had not been very intimate at College, for the current of Jack’s career had run too rapidly to please the professors in that abode of learning; in short, Jack had been looked upon as a black sheep, and got rid of in a summary manner. But what did it matter? On a stranger in London, lonely and desolate amid the unsympathising crowd, an old familiar face beams with surpassing brightness; in other and humbler language, Reuben was very glad to see Jack, and they agreed to dine together. The curate’s economical mind suggested a modest eating-house, where a reasonable dinner could be obtained for about eighteenpence ahead, but the ambitious soul of Jack Dorking scorned the suggestion.
“My dear fellow,” said he, “you’re my guest to day, and we’ll have a really nice little dinner together. Besides, are you aware,” he continued solemnly, “that at these ‘slap-bangs,’ as they are termed, from the feverish method of thumping down the dishes adopted by the jaded waiters, the anchovy paste is entirely composed of red lead and brick-dust, the soup is derived from the carcases of cab horses (the proprietors contract for those which die in the street), while a Newfoundland dog licks the plates clean, and will, in due course of time, when he has ‘shuffled off this mortal coil,’ appear in those very plates, whose purity he formerly so faithfully maintained, in the shape of haricot mutton. Now here,” said; he, as they entered the portals of a magnificent saloon, ornamented with plate-glass, gilding and evergreens in elegantly-designed vases—“here you will dine as sentient beings gifted with stomachs and palates ought to dine.”
Let us look at Jack Dorking while he is ordering an elaborate little dinner. He was a well-dressed, rather good-looking fellow, except that his features—especially his nose—were somewhat swollen and inflamed. This may possibly be owing (I throw out the suggestion for the benefit of Dr. Letheby) to the metropolitan fogs, as I have often observed the same appearance in medical students and others, after some years’ residence in London. Jack had a restless, wandering eye, and a habit of looking so suddenly over his shoulder at some imaginary object, as rather to discompose Reuben’s tranquillity. He began dinner with a glass of Cognac brandy, which his temperate companion thought was putting the cart before the horse. As the repast proceeded, Jack swallowed a good deal of wine, and became extremely lively. He recalled to Reuben’s memory numerous College pranks, and imitated the old Principal of Saint Shells’ so admirably, that Reuben burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. The noise of his mirth attracted several pairs of eyes to their table, which made Reuben blush. Among the persons who gazed with more than usual intensity at them, Reuben observed two well-dressed gentlemen with high features, and a profusion of rings and jewellery. They whispered together, then one of them rose, and advancing to the table, touched Jack Dorking lightly on the shoulder. Reuben thought the stranger must have established contact with the galvanic battery he had that day seen at the Polytechnic, or else that he was the electrical eel himself in a frock-coat; for as soon as Jack raised his eyes to see who touched him, an involuntary shudder pervaded his person, and he sprang up from the table. A few hurried words, in a low tone of voice, passed between Jack and his mysterious acquaintance; then saying to Reuben, “I shall be back in half-an-hour, old fellow—I must settle this outside;” he left the saloon, closely followed by both his bejewelled friends. Reuben stared in silent astonishment—he could not tell what to make of it—he looked at the waiter, and saw him smile significantly to another waiter, who grinned pantomimically in return. The waiter was less obsequious than he had been, as he brought the cheese, and entered into conversation.
“Nice weather for the time of year, sir?”
“Yes,” answered Reuben, “the young wheat’s looking well.”
“Come from the country, sir?”
“Yes. My first visit to London.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. Friend from the country, sir?”
“H’m—no,” replied Reuben.
“Called away—very particular business—just now, sir?”
“I suppose so. I have no idea on what business.”
“Oh, sir. Coming, sir!” answered the waiter, retiring in obedience to a totally imaginary summons from another part of the room.
“I don’t like the looks of it,” he whispered in confidence to the head waiter: “he’s either precious green or precious deep.”
After the lapse of some minutes, Reuben began to grow exceedingly uncomfortable. The half-hour had elapsed, and there was no sign of Jack’s re-appearance. The waiter brought him the bill. This proceeding seemed to attract the notice of the other attendants in an unaccountable manner. Three or four of them hovered round the table. Reuben opened the bill and read the amount—seventeen shillings and sixpence!
“Waiter!” he said in a tremulous voice, “I—I—you can’t expect me to pay this. The other gentleman”
The circle of attendants drew ominously closer.
