'You're late, sir.' 'Lead on,' said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, 'and make remarks when I require you.

Forward!' This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep, and slippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from the beaten track must have ended in a yawning water-butt.

But Mr Tappertit being, like some other great commanders, favourable to strong effects, and personal display, cried 'Forward!' again, in the hoarsest voice he could assume; and led the way, with folded arms and knitted brows, to the cellar down below, where there was a small copper fixed in one corner, a chair or two, a form and table, a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed, covered with a ragged patchwork rug.
'Welcome, noble captain!' cried a lanky figure, rising as from a nap.
The captain nodded.

Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood composed in all his dignity, and eyed his follower over.
'What news to-night ?' he asked, when he had looked into his very soul.
'Nothing particular,' replied the other, stretching himself--and he was so long already that it was quite alarming to see him do it--'how come you to be so late ?' 'No matter,' was all the captain deigned to say in answer.

'Is the room prepared ?' 'It is,' replied the follower.
'The comrade--is he here ?' 'Yes.