So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet’s health, always given by himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness.  But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling “the mixtur,” and George’s pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening.  He addresses the assembled company in the following terms.

“George.  Woolwich.  Quebec.  Malta.  This is her birthday.  Take a day’s march.  And you won’t find such another.  Here’s towards her!”

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity.  This model composition is limited to the three words “And wishing yours!” which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regulated swig of the mixture.  This she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, “Here’s a man!”

Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlour-door.  He is a sharp-eyed man—­a quick keen man—­and he takes in everybody’s look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man.

“George,” says the man, nodding, “how do you find yourself?”

“Why, it’s Bucket!” cries Mr. George.

“Yes,” says the man, coming in and closing the door.  “I was going down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop-window—­a friend of mine is in want of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone—­and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I thought I couldn’t be mistaken.  How goes the world with you, George, at the present moment?  Pretty smooth?  And with you, ma’am?  And with you, governor?  And Lord,” says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, “here’s children too!  You may do anything with me if you only show me children.  Give us a kiss, my pets.  No occasion to inquire who your father and mother is.  Never saw such a likeness in my life!”

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees.  “You pretty dears,” says Mr. Bucket, “give us another kiss; it’s the only thing I’m greedy in.  Lord bless you, how healthy you look!  And what may be the ages of these two, ma’am?  I should put ’em down at the figures of about eight and ten.”

“You’re very near, sir,” says Mrs. Bagnet.

“I generally am near,” returns Mr. Bucket, “being so fond of children.  A friend of mine has had nineteen of ’em, ma’am, all by one mother, and she’s still as fresh and rosy as the morning.  Not so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you!  And what do you call these, my darling?” pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta’s cheeks.  “These are peaches, these are.  Bless your heart!  And what do you think about father?  Do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket’s friend, my dear?  My name’s Bucket.  Ain’t that a funny name?”