never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with
his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court; they
went the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual
orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at
broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings,
like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as
were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would
never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
“Ten o’clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had
charged to wake him“ten o’clock, sir.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Ten o’clock, sir.”
“What do you mean? Ten o’clock at night?”
“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”
“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”
After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five
minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned
into the Temple, and, having revived himself by twice pacing the
pavements of King’s Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
the Stryver chambers.
The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had
gone home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his
slippers on, and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his
greater ease. He had that rather wild, strained, seared marking
about the eyes which may be observed in all free livers of his class,
from the portrait of Jeffries downward, an