behind the nearest post, at which, after some fruitless at-
tempts to catch him by the hair of his head, his master was
obliged to come to a parley.

"Will you answer me?" said Quilp. "What's going
on, above?"

"You won't let one speak," replied the boy. "They--
ha ha ha!--they think you're--you're dead. Ha ha ha!"

"Dead!" cried Quilp, relaxing into a grim laugh him-
self. "No. Do they? Do they really, you dog?"

"They think you're--you're drowned," replied the boy,
who in his malicious nature had a strong infusion of his
master. "You was last seen on the brink of the wharf,
and they think you tumbled over. Ha ha!"

The prospect of playing the spy under such delicious
circumstances, and of disappointing them all by walking in
alive, gave more delight to Quilp than the greatest stroke
of good fortune could possibly have inspired him with. He
was no less tickled than his hopeful assistant, and they both
stood for some seconds, grinning and gasping, and wagging
their heads at each other, on either side of the post, like
an unmatchable pair of Chinese idols.

"Not a word," said Quilp, making towards the door on
tiptoe. "Not a sound, not so much as a creaking board,
or a stumble against a cobweb. Drowned, eh, Mrs. Quilp?
Drowned!"

So saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off his shoes,
and groped his way up stairs; leaving his delighted young
friend in an ecstasy of summersets on the pavement.

The bedroom-door on the staircase being unlocked, Mr.
Quilp slipped in, and planted himself behind the door of
communication between that chamber and the sitting-room,
which standing ajar to render both more airy, and having
a very convenient chink (of which he had often availed him-
self for purposes of espial, and had indeed enlarged with
his pocket-knife), enabled him not only to hear, but to see
distinctly, what was passing.

Applying his eye to this convenient place, he descried
Mr. Brass seated at the table with pen, ink, and paper, and
the case-bottle of rum--his own case-bottle, and his own
particular Jamaica--convenient to his hand; with hot
water, fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and all things
fitting; from which choice materials, Sampson, by no
means insensible to their claims upon his attention, had
compounded a mighty glass of punch reeking hot; which

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