The noted coffee-house in Covent Garden to which Mr. Chester repaired after leaving the locksmith's might be any one of the many that flourished in that district at the time, such as "Tom's," "White's," "Wills's," and "Button's." "Tom's" was perhaps the most fashionable, and for that reason more likely to be favoured by Mr. Chester, as he would be only too proud to think he would be numbered among such folk as Dr. Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Garrick, Defoe, and all those famous men who resorted to it in its palmiest days. It was situated at No. 17 Russell Street. Turning to _The Old Curiosity Shop_, we can find but few inns or taverns that have any real importance to the story. Of those that are mentioned by name, no detailed description is given, nor is any very vital incident or character associated with them. In Chapter XXI, however, where Quilp invites Dick Swiveller to partake of liquid refreshment with him, we get the real Dickens touch: "As we are companions in adversity," he said, "shall we be companions in the surest way of forgetting it? If you had no particular business, now, to lead you in another direction, there is a house by the waterside where they have some of the noblest Schiedam--reputed to be smuggled, but that's between ourselves--that can be got in all the world. The landlord knows me. There's a little summer-house overlooking the river where we might take a glass of this delicious liquor with a whiff of the best tobacco ... and be perfectly happy, could we possibly contrive it; or is there any particular engagement that peremptorily takes you another way, Mr. Swiveller, eh?" There remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house in question. The summer-house of which Mr. Quilp had spoken was "a rugged wooden box, rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud and threatened to slide down into it. The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy building, sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by the bars of wood which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up so long that even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and of a windy night might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole fabric were about to come toppling down. The house stood--if anything so old and feeble could be said to stand--on a piece of waste ground, blighted with the unwholesome smoke of factory chimneys.... Its internal accommodation amply fulfilled the promise of the outside. The rooms were low and damp, the clammy walls were pierced with chinks and holes, the rotten floors had sunk from their level, the very beams started from their place and warned the timid stranger from their neighbourhood." [Illustration: THE RED LION, BEVIS MARKS _Drawn by G. M. Brimelow_]