But far, far worse was it with Mr. Moggridge, to whose lodgings his steps were bending.  The Poet, as Sam entered, was seated as nearly as possible on the small of his back before the breakfast table.  If mental anguish can be expressed by unkempt hair and a disordered cravat, that of Mr. Moggridge was extreme; and the untasted bloater, pushed aside and half concealed by the newspaper, was full of lurid significance.

Sam paused at the door.  The two friends had barely spoken for more than a month.  Three days ago they had all but fought.  All this, however, was forgotten now.

“Is that you, Sam?  Come in.”

Then, having displayed the olive-branch, the Poet waved the newspaper feebly, and groaned.

“Moggridge, old man—­”

“Sam!”

“What a pair of asses we have been!

“The Poet moaned, and pointed to the paper.

“I know,” nodded Sam; “is it true, d’ye think?”

“My heart forebodes,” said Mr. Moggridge, collapsing still further—­ “my heart forebodes ’tis true, ’tis true; then deck my shroud about with rue, and lay me ’neath the dismal—­”

“Pooh!” broke in Sam; “stuff and nonsense, man!  It’s bad for you, I know, but after all I’m the sufferer.”

The Collector of Customs turned a glassy stare upon him.

“I carried the bag up to Five Lanes; I put the infernal stuff into her very hands; I—­”

“You?”

Sam nodded desperately.  “She asked me to elope with her—­to meet her at Five Lanes.”

Mr. Moggridge staggered up to his feet, and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket.

“You are mad!” he gasped.  “She asked me to elope with her—­me to meet her at the top of Troy Hill.  Look here!” He held out a crumpled letter.  Sam took it, glanced at it, produced an exactly similar note, and handed it to his friend.

They read each the other’s letter sentence by sentence, and in doleful antiphon.  At the conclusion they looked up, and met each other’s gaze; whereat Mr. Moggridge smote his brow and cried—­

“False, false!”

While Sam pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and emitted a long breath, as though, his cup being full, he must needs blow off the froth.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, after a pause, “that you helped her to land the stuff?”

“I thought it was Tea.”

“And you never examined it?”

“She told me it was Tea.”

“Moggridge, you have been given away, as the Yankees put it.  I have been sold, which is bad; but you have been ‘given away,’ which is worse.”

“You were sold for ‘love,’ which is pretty much the same, I take it, as being given away,” objected the Poet testily.

“Not at all the same, Moggridge, as being given away—­with half a pound of Tea.”

   Footnote, Chapter XXIII
   [1] Medicine.