stale tobacco, which hung about the curtains and sofa. There
was a large glass in an oak frame over the mantelpiece, which
was loaded with choice pipes and cigar cases and quaint
receptacles for tobacco; and by the side of the glass hung small
carved oak frames, containing lists of meets of the Heyshrop,
the Old Berkshire, and Drake's hounds, for the current week.
There was a queer assortment of well-framed paintings and
engravings on the walls; some of considerable merit, especially
some watercolor and sea-pieces and engravings from Landseer's
pictures, mingled with which hung Taglioni and Cerito, in short
petticoats and impossible attitudes; Phosphurous winning the
Derby; the Death of Grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse,
not poor old Joe); an American Trotting Match, and Jem Belcher
and Deaf Burke in attitudes of self-defense. Several tandem and
riding whips, mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled
gun, and fishing rods, occupied one corner, and a polished
copper cask, holding about five gallons of mild ale, stood in
another. In short, there was plenty of everything except
books--the literature of the world being represented, so far as
Tom could make out in his short scrutiny, by a few well-bound
but badly used volumes of the classics, with the cribs thereto
appertaining, shoved away into a cupboard which stood half open,
and contained besides, half-emptied decanters, and large
pewters, and dog collars, and packs of cards, and all sorts of
miscellaneous articles to serve as an antidote.

Tom had scarcely finished his short survey when the door of the
bedroom opened, and Drysdale emerged in a loose jacket lined
with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and otherwise gorgeously
attired. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of middle size, with
dark hair, and a merry brown eye, with a twinkle in it, which
spoke well for his sense of humor; otherwise, his large features
were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a
thoroughly well-bred gentleman.

His first act, after nodding to Tom, was to seize on a pewter
and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint
or so of the contents, having, as he said, "'a whoreson longing
for that poor creature, small beer.' We were playing Van-John in
Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled
bones and mulled port. A fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after
that without something to cool his coppers."

Tom was as yet ignorant of what V