te in
the------ Review, tried to air himself at the Haunt, but was choked by
the smoke, and silenced by the unanimous pooh-poohing of the assembly.
Dick Walker, who rebelled secretly at Sarjent's authority, once thought
to give himself consequence by bringing a young lord from the Blue
Posts, but he was so unmercifully "chaffed" by Tom, that even the young
lord laughed at him. His lordship has been heard to say he had been
taken to a monsus queeah place, queeah set of folks, in a tap somewhere,
though he went away quite delighted with Tom's affability, but he never
came again. He could not find the place, probably. You might pass the
Haunt in the daytime, and not know it in the least. "I believe," said
Charley Ormond (A.R.A. he was then)--"I believe in the day there's no
such place at all: and when Betsy turns the gas off at the door-lamp as
we go away, the whole thing vanishes: the door, the house, the bar, the
Haunt, Betsy, the beer-boy, Mrs. Nokes and all." It has vanished: it is
to be found no more: neither by night nor by day--unless the ghosts of
good fellows still haunt it.

As the genial talk and glass go round, and after Clive and his friend
have modestly answered the various queries put to them by good old Tom
Sarjent, the acknowledged Praeses of the assembly and Sachem of this
venerable wigwam, the door opens and another well-known figure is
recognised with shouts as it emerges through the smoke. "Bayham, all
hail!" says Tom. "Frederick, I am right glad to see thee!"

Bayham says he is disturbed in spirit, and calls for a pint of beer to
console him.

"Hast thou flown far, thou restless bird of night?" asks Father Tom, who
loves speaking in blank verses.

"I have come from Cursitor Street," says Bayham, in a low groan. "I have
just been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that you, Pendennis? You
know the man--Charles Honeyman."

"What!" cries Clive, starting up.

"O my prophetic soul, my uncle!" growls Bayham. "I did not see the young
one; but 'tis true."

The reader is aware that more than the three years have elapsed, of
which time the preceding pages contain the harmless chronicle; and
while Thomas Newcome's leave has been running out and Clive's mustachios
growing, the fate of other persons connected with our story has also had
its development, and their fortune has experienced its natural progress,
its increase or decay. Our tale, such as it has hitherto been arranged,
has passed leisurely in