Upon which Tom observed: 'Don't come here again.' 'You old rascal, Tom!' cried Andrew, swinging over the table: 'it's quite jolly for us to be hob-a-nobbing together once more.

'Gad!--no, we won't though! I promised--Harriet.

Eh?
What say, Tom ?' 'Nother pint, Nan ?' Tom shook his head in a roguishly-cosy, irresistible way.

Andrew, from a shake of denial and resolve, fell into the same; and there sat the two brothers--a jolly picture.
The hour was ten, when Andrew Cogglesby, comforted by Tom's remark, that he, Tom, had a wig, and that he, Andrew, would have a wigging, left the Aurora; and he left it singing a song.

Tom Cogglesby still sat at his table, holding before him Evan's letter, of which he had got possession; and knocking it round and round with a stroke of the forefinger, to the tune of, 'Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, 'pothecary, ploughboy, thief'; each profession being sounded as a corner presented itself to the point of his nail.