“Harkye! you d--d son of a gun!” cried Mr. Gordon, abruptly turning from Dartmore, after a hearty shake of the hand, to the man at the counter--“Harkye! give me change for this half sovereign, and be d--d to you--and then tip us a double gill of your best; you whey-faced, liverdrenched, pence-griping, belly-griping, paupercheating, sleepy-souled Arismanes of bad spirits. Come, gentlemen, if you have nothing better to do, I’ll take you to my club; we are a rare knot of us, there--all choice spirits; some of them are a little uncouth, it is true, but we are not all born Chesterfields. Sir, allow me to ask the favour of your name?” “Dartmore.” “Mr. Dartmore, you are a gentleman. Hollo! you Liquorpond-street of a scoundrel--having nothing of liquor but the name, you narrow, nasty, pitiful alley of a fellow, with a kennel for a body, and a sink for a soul; give me my change and my gin, you scoundrel! Humph, is that all right, you Procrustes of the counter, chopping our lawful appetites down to your rascally standard of seven-pence half-penny? Why don’t you take a motto, you Paynim dog? Here’s one for you--‘Measure for measure, and the devil to pay!’ Humph, you pitiful toadstool of a trader, you have no more spirit than an empty water-bottle; and when you go to h--ll, they’ll use you to cool the bellows. I say, you rascal, why are you worse off than the devil in a hip bath of brimstone?--because, you knave, the devil then would only be half d--d, and you are d--d all over! Come, gentlemen, I am at your service.” CHAPTER L. The history of a philosophical vagabond, pursuing novelty, and losing content.--Vicar of Wakefield. We followed our strange friend through the crowd at the door, which he elbowed on either side with the most aristocratic disdain, perfectly regardless of their jokes at his dress and manner; he no sooner got through the throng, than he stopped short (though in the midst of the kennel) and offered us his arm. This was an honour of which we were by no means desirous; for, to say nothing of the shabbiness of Mr. Gordon’s exterior, there was a certain odour in his garments which was possibly less displeasing to the wearer than to his acquaintance. Accordingly, we pretended not to notice this invitation, and merely said, we would follow his guidance. He turned up a narrow street, and after passing some of the most ill favoured alleys I ever had the happiness of beholding, he stopped at a low door; here he knocked twice, and was at last admitted by a slip-shod, yawning wench, with red arms, and a profusion of sandy hair. This Hebe, Mr. Gordon greeted with a loving kiss, which the kissee resented in a very unequivocal strain of disgustful reproach. “Hush! my Queen of Clubs; my Sultana Sootina!” said Mr. Gordon; “hush! or these gentlemen will think you in earnest. I have brought three new customers to the club.” This speech somewhat softened the incensed Houri of Mr. Gordon’s Paradise, and she very civilly asked us to enter.