"Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben. "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival seemed ominous. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in.
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