“I don't know one from the other. Who's the Spider?”

“The spider?” said I.

“The blotchy, sprawly, sulky fellow.”

“That's Bentley Drummle,” I replied; “the one with the delicate face is Startop.”

Not making the least account of “the one with the delicate face,” he returned, “Bentley Drummle is his name, is it?

I like the look of that fellow.”

He immediately began to talk to Drummle: not at all deterred by his replying in his heavy reticent way, but apparently led on by it to screw discourse out of him. I was looking at the two, when there came between me and them the