“That’s not fit for, a gentleman like you, sir,” said Kinch.

“I’m the best judge of that matter,” rejoined Mr. Stevens.  “What is the price of it?”

“Oh, that coat you can have for a dollar,” replied Kinch.

“Then I’ll take it.  Now hand out some trowsers.”

The trowsers were brought; and from a large number Mr. Stevens selected a pair that suited him.  Then adding an old hat to his list of purchases, he declared his fit-out complete.

“Can’t you accommodate me with some place where I can put these on?” he asked of Kinch; “I’m going to have a little sport with some friends of mine, and I want to wear them.”

Kinch led the way into a back room, where he assisted Mr. Stevens to array himself in his newly-purchased garments.  By the change in his attire he seemed completely robbed of all appearance of respectability; the most disagreeable points of his physique seemed to be brought more prominently forward by the habiliments he had assumed, they being quite in harmony with his villanous countenance.

Kinch, who looked at him with wonder, was forced to remark, “Why, you don’t look a bit like a gentleman now, sir.”

Mr. Stevens stepped forward, and surveyed himself in the looking-glass.  The transformation was complete—­surprising even to himself.  “I never knew before,” said he, mentally, “how far a suit of clothes goes towards giving one the appearance of a gentleman.”

He now emptied the pockets of the suit he had on;—­in so doing, he dropped upon the floor, without observing it, one of the papers.

“Fold these up,” said he, handing to Kinch the suit he had just taken off, “and to-morrow bring them to this address.”  As he spoke, he laid his card upon the counter, and, after paying for his new purchases, walked out of the shop, and bent his steps in the direction of Whitticar’s tavern.

On arriving there, he found the bar-room crowded with half-drunken men, the majority of whom were Irishmen, armed with bludgeons of all sizes and shapes.  His appearance amongst them excited but little attention, and he remained there some time before he was recognized by the master of the establishment.

“By the howly St. Patherick I didn’t know you, squire; what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Hist!” cried Mr. Stevens, putting his fingers to his lips; “I thought it was best to see how matters were progressing, so I’ve run down for a little while.  How are you getting on?”

“Fine, fine, squire,” replied Whitticar; “the boys are ripe for anything.  They talk of burning down a nigger church.”

“Not to-night—­they must not do such a thing to-night—­we are not ready for that yet.  I’ve made out a little list—­some of the places on it they might have a dash at to-night, just to keep their hands in.”  As Mr. Stevens spoke, he fumbled in his pocket for the list in question, and was quite surprised to be unable to discover it.