“I can’t.  You don’t know what you’re talking about.  When you have once gone into Society, you mustn’t come out of it.”

“Then if you’ll excuse the freedom, Mr. Chops,” were my remark, shaking my head grave, “I think it’s a pity you ever went in.”

Mr. Chops shook that deep Ed of his, to a surprisin extent, and slapped it half a dozen times with his hand, and with more Wice than I thought were in him.  Then, he says, “You’re a good fellow, but you don’t understand.  Good-night, go along.  Magsman, the little man will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and retire behind the curtain.”  The last I see of him on that occasion was his tryin, on the extremest werge of insensibility, to climb up the stairs, one by one, with his hands and knees.  They’d have been much too steep for him, if he had been sober; but he wouldn’t be helped.

It warn’t long after that, that I read in the newspaper of Mr. Chops’s being presented at court.  It was printed, “It will be recollected”—­and I’ve noticed in my life, that it is sure to be printed that it will be recollected, whenever it won’t—­“that Mr. Chops is the individual of small stature, whose brilliant success in the last State Lottery attracted so much attention.”  Well, I says to myself, Such is Life!  He has been and done it in earnest at last.  He has astonished George the Fourth!

(On account of which, I had that canvass new-painted, him with a bag of money in his hand, a presentin it to George the Fourth, and a lady in Ostrich Feathers fallin in love with him in a bag-wig, sword, and buckles correct.)

I took the House as is the subject of present inquiries—­though not the honour of bein acquainted—­and I run Magsman’s Amusements in it thirteen months—­sometimes one thing, sometimes another, sometimes nothin particular, but always all the canvasses outside.  One night, when we had played the last company out, which was a shy company, through its raining Heavens hard, I was takin a pipe in the one pair back along with the young man with the toes, which I had taken on for a month (though he never drawed—­except on paper), and I heard a kickin at the street door.  “Halloa!” I says to the young man, “what’s up!” He rubs his eyebrows with his toes, and he says, “I can’t imagine, Mr. Magsman”—­which he never could imagine nothin, and was monotonous company.

The noise not leavin off, I laid down my pipe, and I took up a candle, and I went down and opened the door.  I looked out into the street; but nothin could I see, and nothin was I aware of, until I turned round quick, because some creetur run between my legs into the passage.  There was Mr. Chops!

“Magsman,” he says, “take me, on the old terms, and you’ve got me; if it’s done, say done!”

I was all of a maze, but I said, “Done, sir.”

“Done to your done, and double done!” says he.  “Have you got a bit of supper in the house?”