"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,