The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on.  In fact, there was no hope of its clearing up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess’ tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears; and, on referring to the almanac, I found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom through the whole month, “expect—­much—­rain—­about—­this—­time.”

I was dreadfully hipped.  The hours seemed as if they would never creep by.  The very ticking of the clock became irksome.  At length the stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell.  Shortly after, I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar:  “The stout gentleman in No. 13 wants his breakfast.  Tea and bread and butter with ham and eggs; the eggs not to be too much done.”

In such a situation as mine, every incident is of importance.

Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagination.  I am prone to paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon.  Had the guest up-stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or merely as “the gentleman in No. 13,” it would have been a perfect blank to me.  I should have thought nothing of it; but “The stout gentleman!”—­the very name had something in it of the picturesque.  It at once gave the size; it embodied the personage to my mind’s eye, and my fancy did the rest.

He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow old.  By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early rising; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman.

There was another violent ringing.  The stout gentleman was impatient for his breakfast.  He was evidently a man of importance; “well-to-do in the world;” accustomed to be promptly waited upon; of a keen appetite, and a little cross when hungry; “perhaps,” thought I, “he maybe be some London Alderman; or who knows but he may be a Member of Parliament?”

The breakfast was sent up and there was a short interval of silence; he was, doubtless, making the tea.  Presently there was a violent ringing, and before it could be answered, another ringing still more violent.  “Bless me! what a choleric old gentleman!” The waiter came down in a huff.  The butter was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham was too salt:—­the stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eating; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant with the household.