‘Where does the Honourable Tom live?’ says I. ‘_Honourable!_’ says Sam, with a hollow horrid laugh; ‘I tell you, Dick, he’s no more Honourable than you are.’ ‘What, an impostor?’ ‘No, no; not that. He is a real Honourable, only--’ ‘Oh, ho! I smell a rat--a little jealous, eh?’ ‘Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he’s a thief; and the Baron’s a thief; and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better. Eight-and-thirty pounds he won of me before supper; and made me drunk, and sent me home:--is _that_ honourable? How can _I_ afford to lose forty pounds? It’s took me two years to save it up:--if my old aunt gets wind of it, she’ll cut me off with a shilling: hang me!’--and here Sam, in an agony, tore his fair hair. While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was rung, which signal being answered by a surly ‘Come in,’ a tall, very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to his chin, entered the room. ‘Pogson, my buck, how goes it?’ said he familiarly, and gave a stare at me: I was making for my hat. ‘Don’t go,’ said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down again. The Honourable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha’d: and, at last, said he wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in private, if possible. ‘There’s no secrets betwixt me and my friend,’ cried Sam. Mr. Ringwood paused a little:--’ An awkward business that of last night,’ at length exclaimed he. ‘I believe it _was_ an awkward business,’ said Sam drily. ‘I really am very sorry for your losses.’ ‘Thank you: and so am I, _I_ can tell you,’ said Sam. ‘You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink; for, when you drink, you _will_ play high: by Gad, you led _us_ in, and not we you.’ ‘I dare say,’ answered Sam, with something of peevishness; ‘losses is losses: there’s no use talking about ‘em when they’re over and paid.’ ‘And paid?’ here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood; ‘why, my dear fel---- what the deuce--has Florval been with you?’ ‘D----Florval!’ growled Tom, ‘I’ve never set eyes on his face since last night; and never wish to see him again.’ ‘Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to settle the bills which you gave him last night?’ ‘Bills! what do you mean?’ ‘I mean, sir, these bills,’ said the Honourable Tom, producing two out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. ‘“I promise to pay, on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four hundred pounds. October 20, 1838.” “Ten days after date I promise to pay the Baron de et cætera, et cætera, one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.” You didn’t say what regiment you were in.’ ‘WHAT!’ shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting up, and looking preternaturally pale and hideous.