"That's me," said the other. "It's quite by accident I heard where you
were living, George; I offered to go and sling my hammock with old Dingle
for a week or two, and he told me. Nice quiet little place, Seacombe.
Ah, you were lucky to get your pension, George."

"I deserved it," said Mr. Burton, sharply, as he fancied he detected
something ambiguous in his friend's remark.

"Of course you did," said Mr. Stiles; "so did I, but I didn't get it.
Well, it's a poor heart that never rejoices. What about that drink you
were speaking of, George?"

"I hardly ever touch anything now," replied his friend.

"I was thinking about myself," said Mr. Stiles. "I can't bear the stuff,
but the doctor says I must have it. You know what doctors are, George!"

Mr. Burton did not deign to reply, but led the way indoors.

"Very comfortable quarters, George," remarked Mr. Stiles, gazing round
the room approvingly; "ship-shape and tidy. I'm glad I met old Dingle.
Why, I might never ha' seen you again; and us such pals, too."

His host grunted, and from the back of a small cupboard, produced a
bottle of whisky and a glass, and set them on the table. After a
momentary hesitation he found another glass.

"Our noble selves," said Mr. Stiles, with a tinge of reproach in his
tones, "and may we never forget old friendships."