His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and
two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society through
the extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of his
garret be the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short,
spare man, of a somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed
influenced by his entry into the room, and his salutation of each
member partook of the patronizing. The hairdresser made way for
him between himself and the stomach. A minute afterwards he had
taken possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation
took place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first
observation.

'Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,' observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the
man of paragraphs.

'A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,' said Mr.
Bolton.

'Good heavens!' exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

'Boiled him, gentlemen!' added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective
emphasis; 'BOILED him!'

'And the particulars, Mr. B.,' inquired the hairdresser, 'the
particulars?'

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or
three dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the