“Eh? what?  No—­stuff!  Yes, yes—­go on, go on.”

We will!—­we blushed for our uncle’s coat!  His heart, God bless it, never caused a blush on the cheek of man, woman, child, or even angel, to rise for that.  We will confess.  Let’s see, we are sixty now (we don’t look so much, but we are sixty).  Well, be it so.  We were handsome once—­is this vanity at sixty? if so, our grey hairs are a hatchment for the past.  We were “swells once!—­hurrah!—­we were!” Stop, this is indecent—­let us be calm—­our action was like the proceeding of the denuder of well-sustained and thriving pigs, he who deprives them of their extreme obesive selvage—­vulgo, “we cut it fat.”  Bond-street was cherished by our smile, and Ranelagh was rendered happy by the exhibition of our symmetry.  Behold us hessianed in our haunts, touching the tips of well-gloved fingers to our passing friends; then fancy the opening and shutting of our back, just as Lord Adolphus Nutmeg claimed the affinity of “kid to kid,” to find our other hand close prisoner made by our uncle Bucket.

“How are you, old cock?”

“Who’s that, eh?”

“A lunatic, my lord (what lies men tell!), and dangerous!”

“Good day! [Exit my lord].  This way.”  We followed our uncle—­the end of a blind alley gave us a resting-place.

“Bravo!” exclaimed our uncle Bucket, “this is rare!  I live here—­dine with me!”

A mob surrounded us—­we acquiesced, in hopes to reach a place of shelter.

“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!