owly undressing himself, and staring at the
old chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the
bedside, "I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,"
said Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch--"very odd." Tom
shook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked at the chair
again. He couldn't make anything of it though, so he got into bed,
covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.

'In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused dream
of tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that presented
itself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.

'"I won't look at it any more," said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his
eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep
again. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking
up their legs, jumping over each other's backs, and playing all kinds of
antics.

"'I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of
false ones," said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes.
There it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as
provoking as ever.

'Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most
extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back
gradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled
human face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the
round knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers;
and the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous
century, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to
dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what
was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.

'Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five
tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little
startled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the
old gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At
length he resolved that he wouldn't stand it; and as the old face still
kept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone--

'"What the devil are you winking at me for?"

'"Because I like it, Tom Smart," said the chair; or the old gentleman,
whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom
spoke, and began grinning like a superannuated monkey.

'"How do you know my name