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walk from the far end of the Bridge, and which I am glad to say still exists, for I visited it the day I made the sketch accompanying this chapter.

It will be remembered that it was in the courtyard of the George that Sam Weller, being at the time "boots" of the hostelry, first met Mr. Pickwick when on his way to catch Jingle and Miss Wardle - a bit of information current at the time the "Pickwick Papers" were being issued, and which, if it reached Mr. Thackeray's ears at all (and it must have done so), would have sent him post-haste to look the spot over, he being particularly anxious, as we all know, to illustrate the book.

It may be that he felt that Mr. Dickens had preëmpted the locality, so to speak, and had thus avoided it. Then, again, this was an open air background, and not a closed drawing-room, or cozy tavern- places almost always used by him when in search of "local colour."

But that he loved the great, gray mass, standing waist deep in the waters, its strong arms held out to either bank, I have no shadow of doubt.

For a great Bridge it was in his time and still is in ours: dignified, solemn, conscious of its strength, unruffled - even when thousands of

insects on wheels crawl over its backbone, or lumbering tows sweep beneath its arches.

As for its solidity: Were it a ledge of primeval rock straddling the river, with holes scooped out to let its floods pass in safety, it could not appear to be more permanent or more irresistible. The houses of Parliament themselves might come swooping down with a mighty onslaught, and the old Bridge would but hunch one shoulder of its abutments in defence, and the whole mass would crumble as does a field of ice, in its pitch over a dam.

And the width and length of it! on top, under the arches and at each end: So wide that one must look over the parapet to be convinced that it is not one of London's streets; so high, that everything about it is dwarfed; so long, that the farther end is lost in a gray film.

Evins, to whom every foot of it was as well known as the "down grade" to Paddington station, or the "turn in" at Charing Cross, learning that I wanted to see it "broadside on," whirled the cab to the left we had just come over from the "George Inn" twisted down a breakneck lane, around some warehouses, and so out upon a sort of landing a few feet above the water line, bristling with heavy

iron cranes.

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Here were square wooden floats bearing idle rowboats huge affairs which would hold a ship's entire crew - had held them no doubt.

"There ye are, sir, and ye can see the Tower Bridge further up, and if it wasn't for Ben Tillett and a lot of other fools who do be wanting to cut their noses off to spite their ugly mugs, you'd have the river covered with lighters and tows, which it ain't been these four weeks, owing to the dock strike which is still

on."

But there were boats aplenty; even the vociferous labour leader could not quite empty the rolling Thames, or spoil the scene for me. A lively, impudent tug was puffing flares of white steam into the face of the gray monster, and away up the lane of glistening silver my eyes rested on tiny croton bugs which must have been isolated scows, either adrift or anchored, while up against the sky was a little embroidered edging which proved to be the huge stone rail or parapet guarding the footway. Behind this, moved little dots of heads and flat crawly things which turned out to be vans and omnibuses, with smaller dots fringing their tops. Over all shone one of those luminous ground-glass skies that one sometimes

sees in London when the night's rain and wind have swept away the smoke, and things stand out and are real.

And with the crisp joyousness of everything about me came a note of sadness. I had lived with My Master for weeks, thought only of him, and at times had almost felt the warmth of his hand in mine. Now the end had come. This was my last sketch. On the morrow I must say good-bye both to him and to his haunts. Yes, it was all over- - the work finished and the charcoal box closed. It would be colour now along the lagoons of my beloved Venice.

And I had another farewell to say, for this was also my last day with Evins.

"Paris to-morrow," I said to him, in reluctant tones, as I laid down my charcoal.

"Yes, sir, so the porter at Jules's told me. I'll be around, sir, early, and take ye to Victoria station."

"I hate to go, Evins

now that we have got to know each other," I added.

"And I hate to have ye, sir. Been a great month nothing to do but sit still and see ye bang away. Easiest job I ever struck. Ye must be getting hungry, sir; shall I go for a bottle and a sandwich?”

"No, Evins, I'd rather have a table somewhere. Where will it be? The Cock, Cheshire Cheese, or around here?"

"Better make it The Cock, sir. Nothing 'round here but tripe and pigs' feet, and but little of them."

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'Make it The Cock, then, Evins." And so it was.

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