“Bring a quartern of gin,” said Tom to the flaunting maid who waited on him, as he took his seat at the council-table, with a bloodshot eye and shaking hand, that showed such a stimulus was by no means unnecessary. “Shut the door, girl,” he added, in a threatening voice, as the undiluted spirit was placed on the table between him and his companion; “this gentleman and me has matters of business to talk over; see that we’re not disturbed--d’ye understand?” The girl gave a saucy smile of intelligence, and left the two worthies to their consultation. “My service to you,” said Tom, abruptly, as he lifted a brimming wine-glass full of gin to his shaking lips. “Here’s luck,” laconically replied the gentleman addressed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and turning his glass down upon the table to show how religiously he had drained every drop. There was an ominous silence--Tom felt the moment had arrived to explain the whole of his plans, and he paused a little, like some skilful general, as he ran over in his mind how he should impart them in the clearest manner to his companion, a man of somewhat obtuse intellect, though strong and resolute in action, and who was indeed no other than Mr. Fibbes. That worthy’s appearance had decidedly changed for the worse since we had the honour of making his acquaintance at the truly British game of skittles, or even since we last took leave of him in earnest conversation with his patron, Major D’Orville. He had sustained two domestic afflictions, from each of which he had suffered severely: the one in the loss of his little black-eyed wife, who had been suddenly taken from him, and who, although, as he himself said, she was a “rum ’un when she was raised,” had certainly kept him out of a deal of mischief; the other, in the premature death of his pride and prime favourite, Jessie, whose sufferings during distemper and subsequent dissolution he averred would have moved “a ’eart of stone.” Under the influence of these combined sorrows Mr. Fibbes had neglected his person, and taken more decidedly to drinking than formerly, and was now seldom or never in his right senses; a fact sufficiently attested by his bloated red face, his dull leaden eye, and general appearance of dissolute recklessness. He was indeed ripe for mischief, or, to use his own words, “up to anythink, from skinning a pig to smothering a Harchbishop,” a frame of mind very likely to lead to dangerous consequences. Tom filled his glass once more, and opened the plan of his campaign.