er, and
his guardian, the General, the Major? "I preshoom, from your apparance,
you've come into your prawpertee; and, bedad, yee'll spend it like a man
of spirit--I'll go bail for that. No? not yet come into your estete? If
ye want any thrifle, heark ye, there's poor old Jack Costigan has got
a guinea or two in his pocket--and, be heavens! you shall never want,
Awthur, me dear boy. What'll ye have? John, come hither, and look
aloive; give this gentleman a glass of punch, and I'll pay for't.--Your
friend? I've seen him before. Permit me to have the honour of making
meself known to ye, sir, and requesting ye'll take a glass of punch."

"I don't envy Sir Charles Mirabel his father-in-law," thought Pendennis.
"And how is my old friend, Mr. Bows, Captain? Have you any news of him,
and do you see him still?"

"No doubt he's very well," said the Captain, jingling his money, and
whistling the air of a song--'The Little Doodeen'--for the singing
of which he was celebrated at the Fielding's Head. "Me dear boy--I've
forgot your name again--but my name's Costigan, Jack Costigan, and I'd
loike ye to take as many tumblers of punch in my name as ever ye
loike. Ye know my name; I'm not ashamed of it." And so the captain went
maundering on.

"It's pay-day with the General," said Mr. Hodgen, the bass singer, with
whom Warrington was in deep conversation: "and he's a precious deal more
than half seas over. He has already tried that 'Little Doodeen' of his,
and broke it, too, just before I sang 'King Death.' Have you heard
my new song, 'The Body Snatcher,' Mr. Warrington?--angcored at Saint
Bartholomew's the other night--composed expressly for me. Per'aps you
or your friend would like a copy of the song, sir? John, just 'ave
the kyndness to 'and over a 'Body Snatcher' 'ere, will yer?--There's a
portrait of me, sir, as I sing it--as the Snatcher--considered rather
like."

"Thank you," said Warrington; "heard it nine times--know it by heart,
Hodgen."

Here the gentleman who presided at the pianoforte began to play upon his
instrument, and Pen, looking in the direction of the music, beheld that
very Mr. Bows, for whom he had been asking but now, and whose existence
Costigan had momentarily forgotten. The little old man sate before the
battered piano (which had injured its constitution wofully by sitting up
so many nights, and spoke with a voice, as it were, at once hoarse and
faint), and accompanied the singers, or played with taste an