If you look in the bills, you will see that the steamers leave London on Saturday morning, and Boulogne on Saturday night; so that there is often not an hour between the time of arrival and departure.  Bless us! bless us!  I pity the poor Captain that, for twenty-four hours at a time, is on a paddle-box, roaring out, “Ease her!  Stop her!” and the poor servants, who are laying out breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, supper;—­breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, supper again;—­for layers upon layers of travellers, as it were; and most of all, I pity that unhappy steward, with those unfortunate tin-basins that he must always keep an eye over.  Little did we know what a storm was brooding in our absence; and little were we prepared for the awful, awful fate that hung over our Tuggeridgeville property.

Biggs, of the great house of Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick, was our man of business:  when I arrived in London I heard that he had just set off to Paris after me.  So we started down to Tuggeridgeville instead of going to Portland Place.  As we came through the lodge-gates, we found a crowd assembled within them; and there was that horrid Tuggeridige on horseback, with a shabby-looking man, called Mr. Scapgoat, and his man of business, and many more.  “Mr. Scapgoat,” says Tuggeridge, grinning, and handing him over a sealed paper, “here’s the lease; I leave you in possession, and wish you good morning.”

“In possession of what?” says the rightful lady of Tuggeridgeville, leaning out of the carriage-window.  She hated black Tuggeridge, as she called him, like poison:  the very first week of our coming to Portland Place, when he called to ask restitution of some plate which he said was his private property, she called him a base-born blackamoor, and told him to quit the house.  Since then there had been law squabbles between us without end, and all sorts of writings, meetings, and arbitrations.

“Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam,” roars he, “left me by my father’s will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and know as well as I do.”

“Old Tug left no will,” shrieked Jemmy; “he didn’t die to leave his estates to blackamoors—­to negroes—­to base-born mulatto story-tellers; if he did may I be -----”

“Oh, hush! dearest mamma,” says Jemimarann.  “Go it again, mother!” says Tug, who is always sniggering.

“What is this business, Mr. Tuggeridge?” cried Tagrag (who was the only one of our party that had his senses).  “What is this will?”

“Oh, it’s merely a matter of form,” said the lawyer, riding up.  “For heaven’s sake, madam, be peaceable; let my friends, Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick, arrange with me.  I am surprised that none of their people are here.  All that you have to do is to eject us; and the rest will follow, of course.”

“Who has taken possession of this here property?” roars Jemmy, again.

“My friend Mr. Scapgoat,” said the lawyer.—­Mr. Scapgoat grinned.