It was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with Mr. Wopsle on the walk home. Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out, and it fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur, quite out of the lamp's usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance on the fog. We were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose with a change of wind from a certain quarter of our marshes, when we came upon a man, slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.

     "Halloa!" we said, stopping. "Orlick there?"

     "Ah!" he answered, slouching out. "I was standing by a minute, on the chance of company."

     "You are late," I remarked.

     Orlick not unnaturally answered, "Well? And you're late."

     "We have been," said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance,--"we have been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening."

     Old Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all went on together. I asked him presently whether he had been spending his half-holiday up and down town?