But the story is too long to relate here.  It is so long that when Mr. Hawkins had finished it was too late to reach Tavistock Square before dark.  Mr. Hawkins explained that as bats and owls and rats come out only when the sun has disappeared, so there are other things that can be seen best by night.  And as he did not go on until the next day at one, he proposed that we should go down to The Cheshire Cheese and get a bite of summat and then sally forth.

So we hailed a bus and climbed to the top.

“She rolls like a scow in the wake of a liner,” said Bobby, as we tumbled into seats.  When the bus man came up the little winding ladder and jingled his punch, Hawkins paid our fares with a heavy wink, and the guard said, “Thank you, sir,” and passed on.

We got off at The Cheese and settled ourselves comfortably in a corner.

The same seats are there, running along the wall, where Doctor Johnson, “Goldy” and Boswell so often sat and waked the echoes with their laughter.  We had chops and tomato-sauce in recollection of Jingle and Trotter.  The chops were of that delicious kind unknown outside of England.  I supplied the legend this time, for my messmate had never heard of Boswell.

Hawkins introduced me to “the cove in the white apron” who waited upon us, and then explained that I was the man who wrote “Martin Chuzzlewit.”

He kissed his hand to the elderly woman who presided behind the nickel-plated American cash-register.  The only thing that rang false about the place was that register, perked up there spick-span new.  Hawkins insisted that it was a typewriter, and as we passed out he took a handful of matches (thinking them toothpicks) and asked the cashier to play a tune on the thingumabob, but she declined.

We made our way to London Bridge as the night was settling down.  No stars came out, but flickering, fluttering gaslights appeared, and around each post was a great, gray, fluffy aureole of mist.  Just at the entrance to the bridge we saw Nancy dogged by Noah Claypole.  They turned down towards Billingsgate Fish-Market, and as the fog swallowed them, Hawkins answered my question as to the language used at Billingsgate.

“It’s not so bloomin’ bad, you know; why, I’ll take you to a market in Islington where they talk twice as vile.”

He started to go into technicalities, but I excused him.

Then he leaned over the parapet and spat down at a rowboat that was passing below.  As the boat moved out into the glimmering light we made out Lizzie Hexam at the oars, while Gaffer sat in the stern on the lookout.

The Marchioness went by as we stood there, a bit of tattered shawl over her frowsy head, one stocking down around her shoetop.  She had a penny loaf under her arm, and was breaking off bits, eating as she went.

Soon came Snagsby, then Mr. Vincent Crummels, Mr. Sleary, the horseback-rider, followed by Chops, the dwarf, and Pickleson, the giant.  Hawkins said there were two Picklesons, but I saw only one.  Just below was the Stone pier and there stood Mrs. Gamp, and I heard her ask: