hould think he was,' replied the stern gentleman. 'He was whistling
"The Light Guitar," in the next room to mine, at five o'clock this
morning.'

'He's very fond of whistling,' said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.

'Yes--I ain't,' was the laconic reply.

Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising
chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was
very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to
attend a great variety of public meetings, for the express purpose of
finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the
other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests
Office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew
the peerage by heart, and, could tell you, off-hand, where any
illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital
tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound
contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing,
much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added,
that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a
great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides
the gentleman in the back drawing-room--Mr. Alfred Tomkins and Mr.
Frederick O'Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a
connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque.
Mr. O'Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly
wild state; and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in
a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned
up--he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish
members, and got franks for everybody in the house. He felt convinced
that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore
shepherd's-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies'
bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance
reminded one of Orson.

'Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,' said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith
appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling '_Di
piacer_.'

'Good morning, sir,' said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he
ever said to anybody.

'How are you, Tibbs?' condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked
to the window, and whistled louder than ever.

'Pretty air, that!' said Evenson, with a snarl, and w