a vessel in the dock which was under orders
to leave the next morning; and, as she was
to convey troops, and as a penalty of twenty
pounds would be incurred for every day she
was behind her time, the men had to be at
work on board her night and day, and even
on Sunday. We went all over her, and were
chiefly impressed by that which, I think,
always strikes one in looking on at great
undertakings which have to be completed by
a given time, and which are fearfully backward
—I mean that so little appears to be
doing, when so much has to be done; and
that that little seems to be utterly immaterial;
while all sorts of things of the utmost
possible importance are left, apparently,
unattended to.

"Extremely interesting," we said to one
another, as we left the ship, "and really a
most successful and pleasant afternoon."

The words were hardly out of our mouths
when we observed what was—though we did
not know it at the time—the first indication
of the decline of our prosperity. This was
a dense volume of smoke which seemed
to come from a considerable distance, and
which, appearing as it did on Sunday afternoon,
could only be attributed to a fire raging
somewhere between where we were and the
town. We took it as easily as persons
commonly do the misfortunes of other people,
and proceeded to the railway station, intending,
as it was now getting on towards six
o'clock, to step at once into the train which
was to convey us to London, and, as we had
now a very fine appetite, to dinner.

Well, it was a nasty thing to find, after
waiting half-an-hour among a crowd of people
—every member of which was engaged in
eating—that, though the trains were
announced to run every quarter of an hour, the
doors which led to them were kept locked,
and the little hole from which the tickets
were issued hermetically closed. It was a
nasty thing, after waiting another quarter of
an hour, to find out the smoke we had
observed was caused by a fire upon our line of
railway, and that nobody knew when there
would be another train. It was a nasty
thing to have to go and stand for another
half-hour upon a pier by the side of the river,
with the evenings getting so cold as they are
in October, and we so hungry, and that river
at Blackwall a chilly place in the evening, in
the dog-days. It was a nasty thing that
when the boat did come it proved to be
completely crammed from end to end with Irish
hop-pickers going up to London to commit
assaults, and to run up and down in
hobnailed boots upon the bodies of their wives,
who, thereupon, would become infinitely
more attached to them than before receiving
such attentions, and would decline to appear
against them at police-courts, or otherwise
subject them to annoyance. It was a nasty
thing that in consequence of this heavy
and loquacious cargo having monopolised
the first steamer that arrived, we had to
wait for the next; a vessel which, after
lingering as long as it could at Blackwall,
proceeded to linger as long as it could at
Greenwich, and everywhere else where it
could get a chance. It was a nasty thing,
with the fiend "hop-dance crying in Tom's
stomach for two white herrings," to be out
in the dark and in the cold upon the
comfortless Thames, with the tide against us.

It was in consequence of Topper's
unhallowed longings for prohibited luxuries
that I consented to dine at an establishment
where you pay a certain sum and are
provided with a dinner which includes soup, fish,
vegetables, an entrée, a joint, a dish of sweets,
and cheese. If it was all good a great deal
too cheap, and if it was all bad—and, O, it
was so bad!—a great deal too dear. After the
first spoonful of soup (an oily compound called
mockturtle, with lumps of fat pork floating in
it, and flavoured with glue), I felt that all hope
must now be abandoned, and looked across
the table at Topper: who evaded my glance,
and remarked what a pretty paper there was
upon the walls. The soup removed, we next
flung ourselves upon the fish. It was John
Dorey, an animal I had hitherto considered
fabulous. This made it interesting; and, as
it had no greater defect than being wholly
devoid of flavour, and appearing to have been
in the hot water ever since it came out of
the cold—which might have been about a
fortnight, or thereabouts—we might,
perhaps, have got on pretty well with it but for
the circumstance that there was so little of it
to get on with, well or ill; Topper having
been favoured with the extreme tip of the
tail, whilst my portion consisted of the back
fin and half a gill. Our plates were, on
our laying down our forks, promptly whisked
away. And then came that fatal entrée
question. It appeared, on consulting the
carte, that we had a choice of two of these
side-dishes. The first was a Ris de veau à
la financière (but why bother ourselves with
French?) – we had, then, to choose between
A smile of calf to the female capitalist, and
Chicken to the truffles. It ended in our
smiling upon the smile of calf, and ordering
the sweetbread to appear before us.

It was not till I had wrestled for some
time with this article of food that I threw
aside the mark of contentment which I had
hitherto worn, and, leaning back in my seat
and laying down my knife and fork, sternly
addressed my friend:—

"Augustus Topper," I said, "what is this
that we have got upon our plates?"

"I do not," replied Augustus, separating
the words carefully, "I do not know."

"Does it not, Augustus," I went on to say,
"does it not resemble India-rubber?"—Topper
nodded slowly in acquiescence—"and does it
not resemble wash-leather that has been steeped
in warm brine? Is it not a compound of
withered skin and cartilage, Augustus, and