country demand his rights.

The impressive and unlooked-for catastrophe towards which I dimly pointed
the reader (shall I add, the highly intellectual reader?) in my first
remarks now rapidly approaches.

It was November still, but the last echoes of the Guy Foxes had long
ceased to reverberate. We was slack,--several joints under our average
mark, and wine, of course, proportionate. So slack had we become at
last, that Beds Nos. 26, 27, 28, and 31, having took their six o'clock
dinners, and dozed over their respective pints, had drove away in their
respective Hansoms for their respective Night Mail-trains and left us
empty.

I had took the evening paper to No. 6 table,--which is warm and most to
be preferred,--and, lost in the all-absorbing topics of the day, had
dropped into a slumber. I was recalled to consciousness by the
well-known intimation, "Waiter!" and replying, "Sir!" found a gentleman
standing at No. 4 table. The reader (shall I add, the observant reader?)
will please to notice the locality of the gentleman,--_at No. 4 table_.

He had one of the newfangled uncollapsable bags in his hand (which I am
against, for I don't see why you shouldn't collapse, while you are about
it, as your fathers collapsed before you), and he said:

"I want to dine, waiter. I shall sleep here to-night."

"Very good, sir. What will you take for dinner, sir?"

"Soup, bit of codfish, oyster sauce, and the joint."