The first-mentioned gentleman took notice that the room had been so lately washed, as not to have had time to dry, and remarked that wet lodging was unwholesome for man or beast.  He looked round at the same time for a poker to stir the fire with, which, he at last observed to the company, the people of the house had removed in order to save their coals.  This difficulty, however, he overcame by the help of Harley’s stick, saying, “that as they should, no doubt, pay for their fire in some shape or other, he saw no reason why they should not have the use of it while they sat.”

The door was now opened for the admission of dinner.  “I don’t know how it is with you, gentlemen,” said Harley’s new acquaintance, “but I am afraid I shall not be able to get down a morsel at this horrid mechanical hour of dining.”  He sat down, however, and did not show any want of appetite by his eating.  He took upon him the carving of the meat, and criticised on the goodness of the pudding.

When the table-cloth was removed, he proposed calling for some punch, which was readily agreed to; he seemed at first inclined to make it himself, but afterwards changed his mind, and left that province to the waiter, telling him to have it pure West Indian, or he could not taste a drop of it.

When the punch was brought he undertook to fill the glasses and call the toasts.  “The King.”—­The toast naturally produced politics.  It is the privilege of Englishmen to drink the king’s health, and to talk of his conduct.  The man who sat opposite to Harley (and who by this time, partly from himself, and partly from his acquaintance on his left hand, was discovered to be a grazier) observed, “That it was a shame for so many pensioners to be allowed to take the bread out of the mouth of the poor.”

“Ay, and provisions,” said his friend, “were never so dear in the memory of man; I wish the king and his counsellors would look to that.”

“As for the matter of provisions, neighbour Wrightson,” he replied, “I am sure the prices of cattle—­”

A dispute would have probably ensued, but it was prevented by the spruce toastmaster, who gave a sentiment, and turning to the two politicians, “Pray, gentlemen,” said he, “let us have done with these musty politics:  I would always leave them to the beer-suckers in Butcher Row.  Come, let us have something of the fine arts.  That was a damn’d hard match between Joe the Nailor and Tim Bucket.  The knowing ones were cursedly taken in there!  I lost a cool hundred myself, faith.”

At mention of the cool hundred, the grazier threw his eyes aslant, with a mingled look of doubt and surprise; while the man at his elbow looked arch, and gave a short emphatical sort of cough.

Both seemed to be silenced, however, by this intelligence; and while the remainder of the punch lasted the conversation was wholly engrossed by the gentleman with the fine waistcoat, who told a great many “immense comical stories” and “confounded smart things,” as he termed them, acted and spoken by lords, ladies, and young bucks of quality, of his acquaintance.  At last, the grazier, pulling out a watch, of a very unusual size, and telling the hour, said that he had an appointment.