Even now there are one or two of the old taverns left, where in sand-floored rooms careless groups from Grub Street sit at night over pipe and excellent punch--punch so cunningly mixed, of such good liquor too, punch that you cannot find in those new gaudy cafés that have lately sprung up in London, great palaces of sham and glitter, fit only to fascinate the undergraduate and the shop-boy. But clubs have killed the old tavern life; and certainly some of the lower class of literary clubs about the Strand are far from desirable substitutes for the antique haunts of the Bohemian. On a fine summer evening, a young barrister sat in his chambers in the Temple. He was in his shirt-sleeves, smoking meditatively, waiting till it was time to go out and dine at a restaurant. His meditations did not seem to be of an over lively nature; indeed, he looked excessively bored and melancholy. Just as he rose with a weary yawn to go into his bed-room, and prepare himself for sallying forth, there came a loud knock at his door. "Who the deuce can that noisy person be?" he muttered to himself, as he approached the outer defences of his castle on tip-toe, and proceeded to reconnoitre his visitor through the key-hole before admitting him. "A man. Can't make out who it is, but doesn't look dangerous, so here goes," and he unfastened the ponderous lock. A young man of his own age was standing in the passage, whom he at once recognised with a shout of cordial welcome. "Why, Duncan, old man, you're the last fellow I expected to see; you have not looked me up these six months. Come in, you rascal! what do you mean by it?" and he struck his visitor on the back with a jovial familiarity that only a long intimacy could warrant. "I have called on you half-a-dozen times, man," replied the other young man, "but you are always out. I always find your oak sported, with a little slip of paper on it saying that Mr. Hudson will be back in five minutes. I'm the one who has just cause of complaint: you never call at my diggings." "You live in such a deuced out of the way hole--where is it again--Chalk Farm? You can't expect a man to travel a Sabbath-day's journey on the remote chance of finding you in." "Well, now I _have_ got you, I am going to inflict myself on you for a few hours," said Duncan. "What are you going to do to-night? Come and dine at the Gaiety or Blanchard's, or somewhere, and we'll go to the promenades afterwards." "With pleasure; just as you came in I was wondering what on earth to do with myself to-night. I feel as if I wanted waking up. I am rather in the blues to-day, but--" and a look of blank dismay came to his face. "Well?" said his friend in an inquiring tone. "The truth is, I'm rather hard up just now--don't like to risk another cheque at the bank, and I don't think I've got three shillings in the world." "I can lend you two pounds, old man, if that will do," Duncan promptly urged.