“You may say that,” said Drysdale. “Here, Henry, get out a bottle of Schiedam. Have a taste of bitters? there's nothing like it to set one's digestion right.”
“No, thank'ee,” said Tom, rejecting the glass which Henry proffered him; “my appetite don't want improving.”
“You're lucky, then,” said Drysdale. “Ah, that's the right stuff! I feel better already.”
“But where have you been?”
“Oh, in the little village. It's no use being in the country at this time of year. I just went up to Limmer's, and there I stuck, with two or three more, till to-day.”
“I can't stand London for more than a week,” said Tom. “What did you do all the day?”
“We hadn't much to say to day-light” said Drysdale. “What with theatres, and sparing-cribs and the Coal-hole and Cider-cellars, and a little play in St. James's Street now and then, one wasn't up to early rising. However, I was better than the rest, for I had generally breakfasted by two o'clock.”
“No wonder you look seedy. You'd much better have been in the country.”
“I should have been more in pocket, at any rate,” said Drysdale. “By Jove, how it runs away with the ready! I'm fairly cleaned out; and if I haven't luck at Van John, I'll be hanged if I know how I'm to get through term. But, look here, here's a bundle of the newest songs—first rate, some of them.” And he threw some papers across to Tom, who glanced at them without being at all edified.
“You're going to pull regularly, I hope, this term, Drysdale.”