“You remember what I told you about the wig, don’t you?” asked Kinch; and, on receiving an affirmative reply, he continued, “Just try that on, and see how it goes—­you’ll find it’ll work like a charm; it’s a regular footman-expatriator—­just try it now; you’ll see if it isn’t the thing to do the business for you.”  “I’m determined to be as bad as I can,” rejoined Charlie; “I’m tired enough of staying there:  that old aunt Rach is a devil—­I don’t believe a saint from heaven could get on with her; I’m expecting we’ll have a pitched battle every day.”

Beguiling the time with this and similar conversation, they reached the house to which Charlie had been despatched with a note; after which, he turned his steps homeward, still accompanied by the redoubtable Kinch.

As ill luck would have it, they passed some boys who were engaged in a game of marbles, Charlie’s favourite pastime, and, on Kinch’s offering him the necessary stock to commence play, he launched into the game, regardless of the fact that the carriage was ordered for a drive within an hour, and that he was expected to fill his accustomed place in the rear of that splendid vehicle.

Once immersed in the game, time flew rapidly on.  Mrs. Thomas awaited his return until her patience was exhausted, when she started on her drive without him.  As they were going through a quiet street, to her horror and surprise, prominent amidst a crowd of dirty boys, she discovered her little footman, with his elegant blue livery covered with dirt and sketches in white chalk; for, in the excitement of the game, Charlie had not observed that Kinch was engaged in drawing on the back of his coat his favourite illustration, to wit, a skull and cross-bones.

“Isn’t that our Charlie?” said she to her daughter, surveying the crowd of noisy boys through her eye-glass.  “I really believe it is—­that is certainly our livery; pull the check-string, and stop the carriage.”

Now Robberts had been pressed into service in consequence of Charlie’s absence, and was in no very good humour at being compelled to air his rheumatic old shins behind the family-carriage.  It can therefore be readily imagined with what delight he recognized the delinquent footman amidst the crowd, and with what alacrity he descended and pounced upon him just at the most critical moment of the game.  Clutching fast hold of him by the collar of his coat, he dragged him to the carriage-window, and held him before the astonished eyes of his indignant mistress, who lifted up her hands in horror at the picture he presented.  “Oh! you wretched boy,” said she, “just look at your clothes, all covered with chalk-marks and bespattered with lime!  Your livery is totally ruined—­and your knees, too—­only look at them—­the dirt is completely ground into them.”

“But you haven’t seed his back, marm,” said Robberts; “he’s got the pirate’s flag drawn on it.  That boy’ll go straight to the devil—­I know he will.”