adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a
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A Tale of Two Cities
basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and
partially wringing them out, he folded them on his head in a
manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and said, “Now I
am ready!”
“Not much boiling down to be done tonight, Memory,” said Mr.
Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers.
“How much?”
“only two sets of them.”
“Give me the worst first.”
“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”
The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one
side of the drinking table, while the jackal sat at his own paperbestrewn table proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and
glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table
without stint, but each in a different way; the lion for the most part
reclining with his hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or
occasionally flirting with some lighter document; the jackal, with
knitted brows and intent face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did
not even follow the hand he stretched out for his glass—which
often groped about, for a minute or more, before it found the glass
for his lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand became so
knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up, and
steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and
basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp head-gear as
no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by
his anxious gravity.
At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the
lion, and proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care
and caution, made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it,
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A Tale of Two Cities
and the jackal assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed,
the lion put his hands in his waistband again, and lay down to
meditate. The jackal then invigorated himself with a bumper for
his throttle, and a fresh application to his head, and applied
himself to the collection of a second meal; this was administered to
the lion in the same manner, and was not disposed of until the
clock struck three in the morning.
“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said
Mr. Stryver.
The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been
steaming again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown
witnesses today. Every question told.”
“I always am sound; am I not?”
“I don’t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some
punch to it and smooth it again.”
With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said
Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the
present and the past, “the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and
down the next; now in spirits and now in despondency!”
“Ah!” returned the other sighing: “Yes! The same Sydney, with
the same luck. Even then, I did exercise for other boys, and
seldom did my own.”
“And why not?”
“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”
He sat, with his han"};
