Mr Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first
floor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region
whistling 'Rule Britannia' with all his might and main, greeted their
ears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from
whence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a
fortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem
for the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the
outworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with
his head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful
manner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for
his knife, a casebottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay
near at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration
of the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in
letters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in
smaller type; the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking
very fresh and bold.
'I was a'most afraid you was lost, sir!' cried Mark, rising, and
stopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to
declare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never--
'Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir?'
'No, Mark.
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