"All right!" exclaimed he of the maternal side, "stand three-halfpence for
your feed."
We shelled the necessary out--he dived into a baker's shop--the mob
increased--he hailed us from the door.
"Thank God, this is your house, then."
"Only my kitchen. Lend a hand!"
A dish of steaming baked potatoes, surmounted by a fractional rib of
consumptive beef, was deposited between the lemon-coloured receptacles of
our thumbs and fingers--an outcry was raised at the court's end--we were
almost mad.
"Turn to the right--three-pair back--cut away while it's warm, and make
yourself at home! I'll come with the beer!"
We wished our _I_ had been in that bier! We rushed out--the gravy basted
our _pants_, and greased our hessians! Lord Adolphus Nutmeg appeared at the
entrance of the court. As we proceeded to our announced
destination,--"Great God!" exclaimed his lordship, "the Bedlamite has
bitten him!" A peal of laughter rang in our ears--we rushed into the wrong
room, and our uncle Job Bucket picked us, the shattered dish, the reeking
potatoes, and dislodged beef, from the inmost recesses of a wicker-cradle,
where, spite the thumps and entreaties of a distracted parent, we were all
engaged in overlaying a couple of remarkably promising twins! We can say no
more on this frightful subject. But--
"Once again we met!"
Our pride wanted cutting, and fate appeared determined to perform the
operation with a jagged saw!
Tom Racket died! His disease was infectious, and we had been the last
person to call upon him, consequently we were mournful.
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