struck nine--had walked about the streets to enjoy himself in
the fresh air--and had then, as the clock struck ten, returned to the
society of his convivial companions, he would most assuredly have been
taken by surprise, on beholding the singular change which the lapse of
one hour had been sufficient to produce in the manners and conversation
of Mr. Valentine Blyth.

It might have been that the worthy and simple-hearted gentleman had
been unduly stimulated by the reek of hot grog, which in harmonious
association with a heavy mist of tobacco smoke, now filled the room;
or it might have been that the second brew of the Squaw's Mixture
had exceeded half a glassful in quantity, had not been diluted to
the requisite weakness, and had consequently got into his head; but,
whatever the exciting cause might be, the alteration that had taken
place since nine o'clock, in his voice, looks, and manners, was
remarkable enough to be of the nature of a moral phenomenon. He now
talked incessantly about nothing but the fine arts; he differed with
both his companions, and loftily insisted on his own superior sagacity,
whenever either of them ventured to speak a word; he was by turns as
noisy as Zack, and as gruff as Mat; his hair was crumpled down over his
forehead, his eyes were dimmed, his shirt collar was turned rakishly
over his cravat: in short, he was not the genuine Valentine Blyth at
all,--he was only a tipsy counterfeit of him.

As for young Thorpe, any slight steadiness of brain which he might
naturally possess, he had long since parted with, as a matter of course,
for the rest of the evening. Mat alone remained unchanged. There he sat,
reckless of the blazing fire behind him, still with that left hand of
his dropping stealthily every now and then into his pocket; smoking,
drinking, and staring at his two companions, just as gruffly
self-possessed as ever.

"There's ten," muttered Mat, as the clock struck. "I said we should be
getting jolly by ten. So we are."

Zack nodded his head solemnly, and stared hard at one of the empty
bottles on the floor, which had rolled out from the temporary store-room
under the table.

"Hold your tongues, both of you!" cried Mr. Blyth. "I insist on clearing
up that disputed point about whether artists are not just as hardy and
strong as other men. I'm an artist myself, and I say they are. I'll
agree with you in everything else; for you're the two best fellows in
the world; but if you say a