"Ah, and you too, if I squared it for you." "Very well, then; we'll hunt up old Lyons on Sunday morning." Mr. Effingham was so pleased with his chance of success, that Mr. Griffiths thought he might borrow half-a-sovereign; and what is more, he got it. On the following Sunday morning Mr. Effingham found himself by appointment opposite Bishopgate Church as the clock struck ten, and Mr. Griffiths there waiting for him. As he approached, Mr. Effingham took stock of his friend's personal appearance, and mentally congratulated himself that it was at the East and not at the West end of London that they were to be seen in company together; for those mysterious means by which Mr. Griffiths went through "the fever called living" had not been very productive of late, and his wardrobe was decidedly seedy. The tall hat shone so as to give one the idea that its owner had forgotten to remove it when he applied the morning macassar to his hair, and the suit of once-black clothes looked as if they had been bees-waxed. Mr. Effingham must have allowed his thoughts to be mirrored in his expressive countenance, for Mr. Griffiths said as he joined him: "Looking at my togs, D'Ossay? Well, they ain't as nobby as yours; but you see, I don't go in to be a 'eavy swell. They'll do well enough for the caper we're on to-day, though; better perhaps than your gridironed kickseys." At another time Mr. Effingham might have shown annoyance at thus having his check trousers sneeringly spoken of; but something which Griffiths had said had rather dashed him, and it was with a little hesitation that he asked: "They--they ain't a very rough lot that we're going amongst, are they?" "Well, there's more rough nor smooth hair among 'em; but they won't do you no harm; I'll look after you, D'Ossay. Shovin you won't mind, nor elbers in every part of your body at once. Oh, and I say, don't leave any-think in your 'ind-pockets, and put your fogle in your 'at. Like this, look. I carry most things in my 'at." And Mr. Griffiths whipped off the tall hat, and showed in it a handkerchief, a greasy parcel suspiciously like a ham sandwich, a pocket comb, and a paper book with the title "The Olio of Oddities, or the Warbling Wagoner's Wallet of Wit and Wisdom." Mr. Effingham took his friend's advice, and transferred all his portable property from the tail-pockets of his coat to other less patent recesses, and the pair started on their excursion.