“How are you, Martin, my good fellow!  How are you?”

And he grasped the poor wretch’s hand with a hearty grip and shook it warmly.  Something like a smile lighted up the marred and almost expressionless face of the miserable creature, as he gave to the hand that had taken his a responsive pressure, and replied,

“Oh! very well, very well, considering all things.”

“Bad night out,” said the man, as he sat down near a stove, that was sending forth a genial heat.

“Yes, bad enough,” returned Martin.  A thought of the damp and chilly air without caused him to shiver suddenly, and draw a little nearer to the stove.

“Which makes us prize a comfortable place like this, where we can spend a pleasant evening among pleasant friends, so much the more.”

“Yes.  It’s very pleasant,” said Martin, spreading himself out before the stove, with a hand upon each knee, and looking with an absent-minded air, through the opening in the door, which had once been closed by a thin plate of mica, and seeing strange forms in the glowing coals.

“Pleasant after a hard day’s work,” remarked the man, with an insinuating air.

“I don’t know what life would be worth, if seasons of recreation and social intercourse did not come, nightly, to relieve both body and mind from their wearisomeness and exhaustion.”

“Yes—­yes.  It’s tiresome enough to have to sit and turn a wheel all day,” said Martin.

“And a relief to get into a place like this at night,” returned the man, rubbing his hands with animation.

“It’s a great deal better than sitting at the wheel,” sighed Martin.

“I should think it was!  Come! won’t you liquor.”

“Thank you!  I’ve just taken something.”

“No matter.  Come along, my good fellow, and try something more.”  And he arose, as he spoke, and moved towards the bar.

Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so he followed to the counter.

“What’ll you take?  Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or spirits?  Any thing, so it’s strong enough to drink to old acquaintanceship.  Ha! my boy?” And he leered in Martin’s face with a sinister expression, and slapped him familiarly on the shoulder.

“Brandy,” said Martin.  “Brandy let it be!  Nothing like brandy!  Set out your pure old Cogniac!  Toby.  A drink for the gods!”

“Prime stuff! that.  It warms you to the very soles of your feet!” added the, man after he had turned off his glass.  “Don’t you say so, Martin?”

“Yes! and through your stockings, to your very shoes!”

“Hat ha! ha!  He! he!” laughed the man with a forced effort.  “Why, Bill Martin, you’re a wit!”

“It ain’t Bill, it’s the brandy,” said the bar-keeper, with more truth than jest.

“That brandy would put life into a grindstone!”

“It’s put life into our friend here, without doubt.”  And as the very disinterested companion of Martin said this, he slapped him again upon the shoulder.