party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments
for her own petticoats.

"The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former
avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the
Borough market." "Where are they?"

"Ay, where are they?" chorussed the mob, flourishing their various
weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; "we'll starve 'em out."

Mr. Wood trembled. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very
difficult, if not impossible, to allay. He knew not what to say, or what
to do; and his confusion was increased by the threatening gestures and
furious looks of the ruffians in his immediate vicinity.

"I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length.

"What does he say?" roared the long drover.

"He says he don't understand flash," replied the lady in gentleman's
attire.

"Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage,
seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. "You
frighten the cull out of his senses. It's plain he don't understand our
lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;" and as he said this he
strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder,
propounded the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with
a formidable contortion of countenance. "Curse you! Where are the
bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could