monial from one of your young ladies, and probably contains oysters.'
'Oh, don't speak so loud!' cried the little artist. 'It would cost me my place if I were heard to speak lightly of the young ladies, and besides, why oysters from Italy? and why should they come to me addressed in Signor Ricardi's hand?'
'Well, let's have a look at it,' said Michael. 'Let's roll it forward to the light.'
The two men rolled the barrel from the corner, and stood it on end before the fire.
'It's heavy enough to be oysters,' remarked Michael judiciously.
'Shall we open it at once?' enquired the artist, who had grown decidedly cheerful under the combined effects of company and gin; and without waiting for a reply, he began to strip as if for a prize-fight, tossed his clerical collar in the waste-paper basket, hung his clerical coat upon a nail, and with a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, struck the first blow of the evening.
'That's the style, William Dent!' cried Michael. 'There's fire for your money! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young ladies—a sort of Cleopatra business. Have a care and don't stave in Cleopatra's head.'
