black door, bent my steps towards it. I was on the point of opening the
door, when a slim young man, with a remarkable small quantity of hair,
stopped my onward coarse by gurgling rather than ejaculating--for the
sentence seemed a continuous word--

"Can't-go-in-there-Sir."

"Why not?" said I."

"Puffs-Sir."

"Puffs!"

"Yes-Sir,--Tues'y night--Puffs-meets-on-Tues'y," and then addressing a
young girl in the bar, delivered an order for "One-rum-one-bran'y-one
gin-no-whisky-all-'ot," which I afterwards found to signify one glass of
each of the liqueurs.

I was about to remonstrate against the exclusiveness of the "Puffs," when
recollecting the proverbial obduracy of waiters, I contented myself with
buttoning my coat. My annoyance was not diminished by hearing the hearty
burst of merriment called forth by some jocular member of this _terra
incognita_, but rendered still more distressing by the appearance of the
landlord, who emerged from the room, his eyes streaming with those tears
that nature sheds over an expiring laugh.

"You have a merry party _concealed_ there, Master Host," said I.

"Ye-ye-s-Sir, very," replied he, and tittered again, as though he were
galvanizing his defunct merriment.