protection of the page when she went out in the fly to pay visits, and
before Mrs. Grimsby and she quarrelled at whist at Lady Pocklington's.

After this merely parenthetic observation, we come to 5, one of her
ladyship's large men, Mr. Jeames--a gentleman of vast stature and
proportions, who is almost nose to nose with us as we pass her
ladyship's door on the outside of the omnibus. I think Jeames has a
contempt for a man whom he witnesses in that position. I have fancied
something like that feeling showed itself (as far as it may in a
well-bred gentleman accustomed to society) in his behavior, while
waiting behind my chair at dinner.

But I take Jeames to be, like most giants, good-natured, lazy, stupid,
soft-hearted, and extremely fond of drink. One night, his lady being
engaged to dinner at Nightingale House, I saw Mr. Jeames resting himself
on a bench at the "Pocklington Arms:" where, as he had no liquor before
him, he had probably exhausted his credit.

Little Spitfire, Mr. Clarence Bulbul's boy, the wickedest little varlet
that ever hung on to a cab, was "chaffing" Mr. Jeames, holding up to his
face a pot of porter almost as big as the young potifer himself.

"Vill you now, Big'un, or von't you?" Spitfire said. "If you're thirsty,
vy don't you say so and squench it, old boy?"

"Don't ago on making fun of me--I can't abear chaffin'," was the reply
of Mr. Jeames, and tears actually stood in his fine eyes as he looked at
the porter and the screeching little imp before him.

Spitfire (real name unknown) gave him some of the drink: I am happy to