had of it. Where are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night? Do you warble
your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?

The goes of stout, the "Chough and Crow," the welsh-rabbit, the
"Red-Cross Knight," the hot brandy-and-water (the brown, the strong!),
the "Bloom is on the Rye" (the bloom isn't on the rye any more!)--the
song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, I daresay, the
songs and bumpers were encored. It happened that there was a very small
attendance at the "Cave" that night, and we were all more sociable and
friendly because the company was select. The songs were chiefly of the
sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.

There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and long
black mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a stranger
to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He was
pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for
sherry-and-water, he listened to the music, and twirled his mustachios
with great enthusiasm.

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, bounded
across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said,
"Don't you know me?"

It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for six
years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue
eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy.

"What the deuce brings you here?" said I.