"I'll tell you what broke me up about that letter," said he.

"My old man played the fiddle, played it all out of tune: one of the things he played was _Martyrdom,_ I remember--it was all martyrdom to me.

He was a pig of a father, and I was a pig of a son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear that fiddle squeak again.

Natural," he added; "I guess we're all beasts." "All sons are, I guess," said I."I have the same trouble on my conscience: we can shake hands on that." Which (oddly enough, perhaps) we did.
Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling of photographs; for the most part either of very debonair-looking young ladies or old women of the lodging-house persuasion.

But one among them was the means of our crowning discovery.
"They're not pretty, are they, Mr.Dodd ?" said Nares, as he passed it over.
"Who ?" I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a quarter-plate) in hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the day had been laborious, and I was wearying for bed.
"Trent and Company," said he.