implied that he had money enough for six months, instead of as many weeks; hut poor he said he was, and grateful he said he would be, for any counsel that his friend would give him.
It would not have been very difficult for any one to see; but it was particularly easy for Martin, whose perceptions were sharpened by his circumstances, to discern; that the stranger's face grew infinitely longer as the domestic-architecture project was developed. Nor, although he made a great effort to be as encouraging as possible, could he prevent his head from shaking once involuntarily, as if it said in the vulgar tongue, upon its own account, "No go!" But he spoke in a cheerful tone, and said, that although there was no such opening as Martin wished in that city, he would make it matter of immediate consideration and enquiry where one was most likely to exist; and then he made Martin acquainted with his name, which was Bevan; and with his profession, which was physic, though he seldom or never practised; and with other circumstances connected with himself and family, which fully occupied the time, until they reached the Rowdy Journal Office.
Mr. Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first-floor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region, whistling "Rule Britannia" with all his might and main, greeted their ears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from whence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a fortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem for the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the outworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with his head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful manner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for his knife, a case-bottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay near at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration of the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in letters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in smaller type: the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking very fresh and bold.
"I was a'most afraid you was lost, sir!" cried Mark, rising, and stopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to declare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never,—
"Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir."
"No, Mark. Where's your friend?"
"The mad woman, sir?" said Mr. Tapley. "Oh! she's all right, sir."
"Did she find her husband?"
"Yes, sir. Least ways she's found his remains," said Mark correcting himself.
"The man's not dead, I hope?"
"Not altogether dead, sir," returned Mark; "but he's had more fevers and agues than is quite reconcileable with being alive. When she didn't see him a waiting for her, I thought she'd have died herself, I did!"
"Was he not here, then!"
"He wasn't here. There was a feeble old shadow come a creeping
