grandfather. Good evening, Marianne.
Come, let me offer you a drop of beer."

The thick smoke from the freshly lighted pipes still lay curling over
the table, and round the little paraffin lamp without a globe. On the
table were tobacco, glasses, matches, and half-empty bottles, while on
the bench stood several full ones awaiting their fate.

Tom Robson, who sat opposite the door, lifted the large mug which had
been standing between him and his friend Martin, and, with his hand on
his heart, began to sing--

"Oh, my darling! are you here,
Marianne I love so dear?"

He had composed this couplet himself, in honour of Marianne, to the
great annoyance of the hungry-looking journeyman printer who sat in the
corner close by him.

Gustaf Oscar Carl Johan Torpander was a most remarkable Swede, inasmuch
as he did not drink; but otherwise there was about him that exaggerated
air of politeness, and that imitation of French manners, which seems
generally to attach to the shady individuals of that nation. He had
risen when Marianne came into the room, and was now making a low bow,
with his shoulders, and especially the left one, well over his ears. His
head was on one side, and he kept his eyes the whole time fixed on the
young girl. While Tom Robson was singing his poetry, the Swede shook his
head with a sympathetic smile to Marianne, by which he meant to express
his regret that they met in such bad company.

The fourth person of the group was sitting with his back to the door,
and did not move, for he was deaf; but when at length the Swede, who was
still bowing, attracted his attention, he turned round heavily on his
chair and nodded deafly to the new-comers. This person's real name had
almost disappeared from the memory of man, for he had been nicknamed
"Woodlouse" among his acquaintance. Mr. Woodlouse passed his time in a
dingy den in the magistrate's office, where he either slept or occupied
himself in sorting documents and papers. But there he had grown to be
almost a necessity, for he had the special gift of knowing the contents
of every paper, and the name of every single person who for years had
sought information at the office. He could stand in the middle of the
room and point to the different shelves, and say, apparently without
effort, what each contained, and what was missing. He had thus gone down
as a kind of living inventory from magistrate to magistrate, and as his
special knowledge increased h