"To be sure you have," said Tickle, laughing; "but why need you tell me so? I am no shop-keeper." "I mean," said I, in alarm, "demmee, that I have lost it, and with that hundred-dollar bill my brother Tim--" "Your brother Tim!" said Tickle; "who's he?" I was struck all aback. I remembered that I was I. D. Dawkins. Tickle perceived my confusion, and enjoyed it, attributing it to another cause. "Right!" said he, grinning with delight; "but don't make any pretence with me. I didn't expect you to have any money; and, the Lord be thanked, I have. I'll square your account, my dear fellow, and help you to a pigeon besides." With these words, and many others not needful to be mentioned, he led the way down stairs, where he became astonishingly grave and dignified--a peculiarity I found myself falling into--slapped his ratan against his legs, called for "his friend Dawkins's bill," and paid it--that is, I suppose he did, for I stalked out upon the porch, as if I considered such vulgar matters beneath my notice. Here, being soon joined by Tickle, and the day proving uncommonly fine, we set out on foot towards the city; and I was conducted by my friend to the door of my own lodgings. CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH SHEPPARD LEE HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH A LADY, WHO TELLS HIM A SECRET. "In and mount," said Tickle: "I see Jem Puddle in the street yonder, and I have an idea I can borrow fifty dollars of him. I will drop round on you by-and-by." So saying, Tickle started off and left me at the door of my lodgings. I had a sort of confused recollection of the place, though I had never seen it before in my life;--the dingy bricks and weather-stained marble, the rickety old iron railing on the steps, and the ugly, worn-out brass plate, with the "J. SNIGGLES" engraved thereon, rose on my memory like old acquaintances who had grown out of it. The house might have been a fashionable one in its day; nay, for the matter of that, it was not so humble in appearance but that a gentleman might have lived in it, if too poor to inhabit a better; and though out of the world, being in a street called Eighth, it was within hail of Chestnut: nevertheless, it was but a poor place compared with my late dwelling, _my_ house, in Chestnut; the recollection of which, together with the reflection that I entered this only as a lodger, somewhat abated the transport of my joy. "Ah!" thought I, "what a pity, in giving up John H. Higginson's gout and wife, I had also to give up his house and money!" But the recollection of the two first-named possessions was fresh upon me, and I ceased to murmur.