CHAPTER XXXIX

MR. MARMADUKE MULEYGRUBS

Towards the close of a winter’s day, a dirty old dog-cart, with “John Jorrocks, M.F.H.,” painted up behind, whisked from the turnpike up the well-laurelled drive of Cockolorum Hall.

The hounds were to meet there in the morning, and Mr. Jorrocks had written to apprise his unknown host of his coming. Being rather late, and having a hack, Mr. Jorrocks had driven a turn faster than usual, and as he cut along the sound drive, the Hall was soon before him.

It had originally been a large red-fronted farm-house, converted by a second owner into a villa! increased by a third into a hall; while under the auspices of its present more aspiring master it was fast assuming the appearance of a castle. Massive stone towers, with loop-holed battlements, guarded the corners—imitation guns peered through a heavy iron palisade along the top— while a stone porch, with massive black-nailed folding oak doors, stood out from the red walls of the centre. A richly-emblazoned flag, containing the quarterings of many families, floated from the roof.

Mr. Marmaduke Muleygrubs had been a great stay-maker on Ludgate Hill, and, in addition to his own earnings (by no means inconsiderable), had inherited a large fortune from a great drysalting uncle in Bermondsey. On getting this he cut the shop, bought Cockolorum Hall, and having been a rampant Radical in the City, was rewarded by a J.P.-ship in the country. Mr. Jorrocks knew all about him, though Mr. Muleygrubs did not know he did.

“Quite genteel, I declare,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the mansion as he pulled up at the door, and clambered down his vehicle to give the massive bronze helmet-handled bell a pull. “Perfect castle,” added he; “’opes I shalln’t get soused,” recollecting his last adventure in one.

The spacious ding-doors were presently opened by an ill-shaped, clumsy-looking youth, in a gorgeous suit of state livery, and a starched neck-cloth, so broad and so stiff as perfectly to pillorize him. A quantity of flour concealed the natural colour of his wild matted hair, while the ruddiness of a healthy complexion was heightened by a bright orange-coloured coat, with a white worsted shoulder-knot dangling at the side. His waistcoat was a broad blue and white stripe, breeches of scarlet plush, and white silk stockings, rather the worse for wear, as appeared by the darning up the calf; stoutish shoes, with leather strings, completed the costume of this figure footman.

“Now, young man!” said Mr. Jorrocks in his usual free-and-easy way, “now, young man! jest stand by my nag while I takes out my traps, for I harn’t brought no grum.—See, now,” continued he, pulling out the gig-seat, “put that i’ my bedroom, and jest give them ’ere tops a rub over for the mornin’,” producing a pair of mudstained boots that he had worn the last day’s hunting; “it weren’t no use bringin’ a clean pair,” observed he, half to himself and half to the servant, “for they’d a’ got crumpled i’ the comin’ and those won’t take no more cleanin’. Now, where’s the stable? Love me, love my ’oss,” continued he, adjusting the reins in the territs, and preparing to lead round.

“That way,” said Stiffneck, extending his left arm like the wand of a telegraph, as he stood with the dirty top-boots in the other, saying which he wheeled about and re-entered the house, leaving Mr. Jorrocks to find his way as he could.

“Ah, never mind,” said the worthy man to himself, seeing he was gone, “if I could find the ’ouse, be bund I can find the stable;” saying which he turned his vehicle round, and following the old wheel-marks on the gravel, was very soon in the stable-yard at the back of the castle.

Here he found another youth in red plush breeches and white silk stockings, washing his face at the cistern, purifying himself from the stable preparatory to appearing in the parlour.

“Here, young man,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “jest put up my ’oss afore ever you start to adorn yourself; and if you take well care of him, I’ll give you ’alf-a-crown i’ the mornin’. He’s a clipped un, and won’t take no cleanin’,” continued he, eyeing the smoking, curly-coated brute, and wondering whether the chap would believe him or not.

This matter being arranged, Mr. Jorrocks ferreted his way back to the front, and, opening the door, passed through the green folding ones of the porch and entered a hall beyond. This was fitted up in the baronial style. Above a spacious mantel-piece, occupying about a third of the apartment, branched an enormous stag’s head, hung round with pistols, swords, cutlasses, and warlike weapons of various kinds, and the walls were covered with grim-visaged warriors, knights in armour, and ladies of bygone days. Many had their names painted in white at the bottom of the pictures, or done in black on the various patterned frames: there was Sir Martin Muleygrubs, and Dame Juliana Muleygrubs, and Darius Muleygrubs, and Erasmus Muleygrubs, and Memnon Muleygrubs, and Pericles Muleygrubs, and Demosthenes Muleygrubs, and John Thomas Muleygrubs.

“Such a lot of stay-makers!” as Mr. Jorrocks observed.

A full-length figure of Nemesis, the goddess of justice, with her balance in one hand and whip in the other, hung over a richly-carved, high-back, old oak chair; and on a table near were ranged Burns’s “Justice,” “Statutes at Large,” Archbold’s “Magistrate’s Pocketbook,” and other emblems of the law.

“The chap must be a beak!” said Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, as he glanced them over.

The fire threw a cheerful gleam over the baronial hall, and our master, having hung his hat on the stag’s horns, and deposited his Siphonia on the table, took a coat-lap over each arm, and, establishing himself with his back to the fire, proceeded to hum what he considered a tune. His melody was interrupted by the partial opening and closing of a door on the right, followed by a lisping exclamation of—“Oh, ma! here’s Kitey come again!” A “Hush, my dear,” and scuttling along the passage, reminded Mr. Jorrocks that he was not at home, so, dropping his tails, and pulling his wig straight, he made for the recently opened door.

This let him into a passage, lighted with flickering, ill-established lamps, along which he kept till he came to a pink sheep-skin mat before a door, at which he paused, and presently turning off, he entered a room, in which he found a lady and a bunch of excited children. The former rose, and concluding she would be the “missis,” Mr. Jorrocks tendered the hand of fellowship, and then gave each child a chuck under the chin; nor was he wrong in his conjecture, for Mrs. Marmaduke Muleygrubs immediately began apologizing for the absence of her lord.

“Duke,” she said, “was unfortunately engaged at that moment with some important justice business”— (decanting the wine).

Mr. Jorrocks “ ’Oped his grace wouldn’t ’urry himself.”

“It was very provoking,” she continued, without regarding Mr. Jorrocks’s observation; “but the whole county came to him for justice, and Duke could hardly be said to have a moment to himself. Every Saturday he was engaged the whole day on the bench, and at the Poor-Law Guardians, but she hoped before long they would find some more people fit to make magistrates of, for really it was taxing ability rather too highly. Not but that Duke’s affection for the Queen would prompt him to serve her as long as he could, but—” Just as she had got so far, the door opened, and Duke himself appeared, smoothing down his cuffs after the exercise of his magisterial functions.

He was a little, round-about, pot-bellied, red-faced, bald-headed, snub-nosed, chattering chap, who, at first sight, would give one the idea of being very good-natured, if it were not notorious that he was the most meddling, officious, ill-conditioned little beggar in the county.

He was dressed in one of the little nondescript jackets of the day, with a “ditto” waistcoat, drab kerseymeres, and leather leggings. Over his waistcoat he sported a broad mosaic gold chain, made to resemble a country mayor’s as much as possible.

“Mr. Jorrocks, I presume,” said he, rubbing his fat hands as he advanced up the room.

“Right!” replied our master, extending his hand.

“Beg ten thousand pardons for not being here to receive you,” said Duke, intending to be very gracious.

“Make no apology,” interrupted Mr. Jorrocks; “where there’s ceremony there’s no friendship.”

“Been bored with justice business all the afternoon,” continued Mr. Muleygrubs; “bailing a bull that was unjustly put in the pound. You are not in the Commission of the Peace, perhaps?”

“Not I,” replied Mr. Jorrocks carelessly; “never was in any commission, save one, as agent for Twankay’s mexed teas, and a precious commission it was—haw! haw! haw!—lost three ’underd pund by it, and more. But, however, n’importe, as we say in France. Werry glad to come here to partake o’ your hospitality,— brought my night-cap with me, in course,—a rule o’ mine, that where I dine I sleep, and where I sleep I breakfast. Don’t do to churn one’s dinner up,—’ow long does’t want to feedin’ time?”

Mr. Marmaduke was rather posed with his guest’s familiarity. He intended to patronize Mr. Jorrocks, whereas the latter seemed to think himself on a perfect footing of equality. Not in the Commission of the Peace, either! But then Duke didn’t know that Mr. Jorrocks knew about the stays.

Pulling out a great gold watch, our host asked his wife what time they dined. (Duke included the kitchen department in his magisterial functions.)

“Half-past six, my dear,” replied his wife, with great humility.

“Wants twenty minutes to six,” observed Mr. Marmaduke, striking the repeater. “Perhaps you’d like to take something before dinner—sandwich and a glass of sherry?”

“Never touch lunches,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, disdainfully. “Never know’d a chap good for nothin’ wot did. Wonder you don’t dine at a reasonable hour, though,” added he.

“Faith, we think half-past six rather early,” replied Mr. Muleygrubs; “seven’s our usual hour—same as my friend Onger’s—but we have some neighbours coming, and made it a little earlier on their account.”

“Well, it’ll be so much the worse for your grub when it does come,” observed Mr. Jorrocks; “for I’m well-nigh famished as it is. Howsomever that reminds me that I’ve a letter to write; and if you’ll let me ’ave a peep at your ‘Directory,’ ” continued he, advancing towards a round table well garnished with gilt-edged books, “I’ll look out the feller’s address, for there’s nothin’ like doin’ things when they’re in one’s mind, and—”

“ ‘Directory!’ ” exclaimed Mr. Muleygrubs, “that’s a ‘Peerage!’ ”

“Bother your Peerages!” muttered Mr. Jorrocks, chucking the costly volume down; adding, aloud to himself, “Wot business ha’ you wi’ Peerages, I wonder?”

Mrs. Muleygrubs looked at our Master with an air of commiseration. She wondered what her husband was making such a fuss about such a man for.

“Well, now then,” said Mr. Jorrocks, turning short round and button-holeing his host, while he looked at him as Muleygrubs would at an unwilling witness; “well, now then, tell me ’bout the foxes—’ave you plenty on ’em?”

“Plenty!” replied Muleygrubs, with the utmost confidence, for he had just received a very fine dog one from the well-known Mr. Diddler, of Leadenhall Market, who, by dint of stealing back as fast as he supplies, manages to carry on a very extensive business with a very small stock-in-trade.

“Plenty!” repeated Muleygrubs, with the same confident tone.

“That’s good,” said Mr. Jorrocks, winking and poking him in the ribs; “that’s good—for though I’m ’appy to dine wi’ people, yet still the ’unt is the real thing I comes for; and I always says to folks wot ask me to stir hup their covers, ‘Now, don’t let us ’ave any ’umbug. If you ’aven’t foxes,’ say I, ‘don’t pretend that you ’ave, for the truth must out, if my ’ounds come, and it will only be addin’ the wice o’ falsehood to the himputation o’ selfishness, sayin’ you ’ave them if you aven’t.’ ”

“Just so,” assented Mr. Muleygrubs, congratulating himself on having excused himself from either charge.

Mr. Jorrocks, having thus broken the ice, proceeded, in a most energetic manner, to give Mr. Muleygrubs his opinions upon a variety of subjects connected with the chase, the breeding and rearing of hounds, the difference of countries, the mischief of too much interference, killing above ground and digging, uncertainty of scent, signs and indications, with a glance at the impositions of keepers, all of which, being Hebrew to Mrs. Muleygrubs, and very nearly Hebrew to her husband, caused her to slink quietly away with her chicks, leaving her husband to the mercy of the “extraordinary man” he had been so indiscreet as to invite.

Poor Mr. Muleygrubs couldn’t get a word in sideways, and was sitting the perfect picture of despair, when rumble, dumble, dumble, dumble, went a great gong, startling Mr. Jorrocks, who thought it was another hurricane.

“An old-fashioned custom we still preserve,” said Mr. Marmaduke casually, observing Mr. Jorrocks’s astonishment; “that gong was brought by one of my ancestors from the holy wars—shall I show you to your room?”

“If you please,” said Mr. Jorrocks.

Our Master, of course, had the state room. It was a large gloomy apartment, with a lofty four-post bed, whose top hangings were made of green silk, and curtains of green moreen.

“Here’s a fine twopenny ’ead and farthin’ tail,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, whisking his candle about as he examined it.

The absence of fire, and the coldness of the apartment holding out little inducement for dallying, Mr. Jorrocks was soon in his blue coat and canaries, and returned to the drawing-room just as the stiff-necked boy announced Mr., Mrs., and Miss Slowan, who were quickly followed by Mr. and Miss De Green, who apologized for the absence of Mrs. De Green, who was suffering under a violent attack of tic-doloreux.

The Rev. Jacob Jones having combed his hair and changed his shoes in the entrance, announced himself, and Professor Girdlestone, a wandering geologist, having dressed in the house, the party was complete, and Mr. Muleygrubs gave two pulls at the bell, while the party sat staring at each other, or wandering moodily about as people at funerals and set parties generally do.

“Dinner is sarved!” at length exclaimed the stiffnecked foot-boy, advancing into the centre of the room, extending his right arm like a guide-post. He then wheeled out, and placed himself at the head of a line of servants, formed by the gentleman Mr. Jorrocks had seen in the yard; a squarebuilt old man, in the Muleygrubs livery of a coachman; Mr. De Green’s young man in pepper-and-salt, with black velveteens; and Mr. Slowan’s ditto, in some of his master’s old clothes. These lined the baronial hall, through which the party passed to the dining-room. Muleygrubs (who was now attired in a Serjeant’s coat, with knee-buckled breeches and black silk stockings) offered his arm to Mrs. Slowan, Mr. De Green took Miss Slowan, the Professor paired off with Miss De Green, and Mr. Jorrocks brought up the rear with Mrs. Muleygrubs, leaving Jacob Jones and Mr. Slowan to follow at their leisure. This party of ten was the result of six-and-twenty invitations.

“Vot, you’ve three o’ these poodered puppies, have you?” observed Mr. Jorrocks, as they passed along the line; adding, “You come it strong!”

“We can’t do with less,” replied the lady, the caros of dinner strong upon her.

“Humph! Well, I doesn’t know ’bout that,” grunted Mr, Jorrocks, forcing his way up the room, seizing and settling himself into a chair on his hostess’ right; “well, I doesn’t know ’bout that,” repeated he, arranging his napkin over his legs, “women waiters agin the world, say I! I’ll back our Batsay, big and ’ippy as she is, to beat any two fellers at waitin’.”

Mrs. Muleygrubs, anxious as she was for the proper arrangement of her guests, caught the purport of the foregoing, and, woman-like, darted a glance of ineffable contempt at our friend.

Our Master, seeing he was not likely to find a good listener at this interesting moment, proceeded to reconnoitre the room, and make mental observations on the unaccustomed splendour.

The room was a blaze of light. Countless compos swealed and simmered in massive gilt candelabras, while ground lamps of various forms lighted up the salmoncoloured walls, brightening the countenances of many ancestors, and exposing the dulness of the ill-cleaned plate.

The party having got shuffled into their places, the Rev. Jacob Jones said an elaborate grace, during which the company stood.

“I’ll tell you a rum story about grace,” observed Mr. Jorrocks to Mrs. Muleygrubs, as he settled himself into his seat, and spread his napkin over his knees. “It ’appened at Croydon. The landlord o’ the Grey-’ound told a wise waiter, when a Duke axed him a question, always to say Grace. According the Duke o’ somebody, in changin’ ’osses, popped his ’ead out o’ the chay, and inquired wot o’clock it was.—‘For wot we’re a goin’ to receive the Lord make us truly thankful,’ replied the waiter.”

Mrs. Muleygrubs either did not understand the story, or was too intent upon other things; at all events, Mr. Jorrocks’s haw! haw! haw! was all that greeted its arrival.—But to dinner.

There were two soups—at least two plated tureens, one containing pea-soup, the other mutton-broth. Mr. Jorrocks said he didn’t like the latter, it always reminded him of “a cold in the ’ead.” The pea-soup he thought werry like oss-gruel; that he kept to himself.

“Sherry or My-dearer?” inquired the stiff-necked boy, going round with a decanter in each hand, upsetting the soup-spoons, and dribbling the wine over people’s hands.

While these were going round, the coachman and Mr. De Green’s boy entered with two dishes of fish. On removing the large plated covers, six pieces of skate and a large haddock made their appearance. Mr. Jorrocks’s countenance fell five-and-twenty per cent., as he would say. He very soon despatched one of the six pieces of skate, and was just done in time to come in for the tail of the haddock.

“The Duke ’ill come on badly for fish, I’m thinkin’,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the empty dishes as they were taken off.

“Oh, Marmaduke don’t eat fish,” replied Mrs. M.

“Oh, I doesn’t mean your duke, but the Duke o’ Rutland,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks.

Mrs. Muleygrubs didn’t take.

“Nothing left for Manners, I mean, mum,” explained Mr. Jorrocks, pointing to the empty dish.

Mrs. Muleygrubs smiled, because she thought she ought, though she did not know why.

“Sherry or My-dearer, sir?” inquired the stiff-necked boy, going his round as before.

Mr. Jorrocks asked Mrs. Muleygrubs to take wine, and having satisfied himself that the sherry was bad, he took My-dearer, which was worse.

“Bad ticket, I fear,” observed Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, smacking his lips. “Have ye any swipes?”

“Sober-water and seltzer-water,” replied the boy.

“’Ang your sober-water!” growled Mr. Jorrocks.

“Are you a hard rider, Mr. Jorrocks?” now asked his hostess, still thinking anxiously of her dinner.

“’Ardest in England, mum,” replied our friend confidently, muttering aloud to himself, “may say that, for I never goes off the ’ard road if I can ’elp it.”

After a long pause, during which the conversation gradually died out, a kick was heard at the door, which the stiff-necked foot-boy having replied to by opening, the other boy appeared, bearing a tray, followed by all the other flunkeys, each carrying a silver-covered dish.

“Come, that’s more like the thing,” said Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, eyeing the procession.

A large dish was placed under the host’s nose, another under that of Mrs. Muleygrubs.

“Roast beef and boiled turkey?” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, half inclined to have a mental bet on the subject. “May be saddle o’ mutton and chickens,” continued he, pursuing the speculation.

Four T. Cox Savory side-dishes, with silver rims and handles, next took places, and two silver-covered china centre dishes completed the arrangement.

“You’ve lots o’ plate,” observed Mr. Jorrocks to Mrs. Muleygrubs, glancing down the table.

“Can’t do with less,” replied the lady.

Stiffneck now proceeded to uncover, followed by his comrade. He began at his master, and, giving the steam-begrimed cover a flourish in the air, favoured his master’s bald head with a hot shower-bath. Under pretence of admiring the pattern, Mr. Jorrocks had taken a peep under the side-dish before him, and seeing boiled turnips had settled that there was a round of beef at the bottom of the table. Spare ribs presented themselves to view. Mrs. Muleygrubs’s dish held a degenerate turkey, so lean and so lank that it looked as if it had been starved instead of fed. There was a reindeer tongue under one centre dish, and sausages under the other. Minced veal, forbidding-looking rissoles, stewed celery, and pigs’ feet occupied the corner dishes.

“God bless us! what a dinner!” ejaculated Mr. Jorrocks, involuntarily.

“Game and black-puddings coming, isn’t there, my dear?” inquired Mr. Muleygrubs of his wife.

“Yes, my dear,” responded his obedient half.

muttered Mr. Jorrocks, running his fork through the breast of the unhappy turkey. “Shall I give you a little ding dong?”

“It’s turkey,” observed the lady.

“True!” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “ding dong’s French for turkey.”

“Are yours good hounds, Mr. Jorrocks?” now asked the lady, thinking how awkwardly he was carving.

“Best goin’, mum!” replied our friend. “Best goin’, mum. The Belvoir may be ’andsomer, and the Quorn patienter under pressure, but for real tear-’im and heat-’im qualities, there are none to compare wi’ mine.” They’re the buoys for making the foxes cry Capevi!” added our friend, with a broad grin of delight on his ruddy face.

“Indeed,” mused the anxious lady, to whom our friend’s comparisons were all gibberish.

“Shall I give anybody any turkey?” asked he, holding nearly half of it up on the fork preparatory to putting it on his own plate. Nobody claimed it, so our friend appropriated it.

Munch, munch, munch was then the order of the day. Conversation was very dull, and the pop and foam of a solitary bottle of 40s. champagne, handed round much after the manner of liqueur, did little towards promoting it. Mr. Jorrocks was not the only person who wondered “what had set him there.” Mrs. Muleygrubs attempted to relieve her agonies of anxiety by asking occasional questions of her guest.

“Are yours greyhounds, Mr. Jorrocks?” asked she with the greatest simplicity.

“No; greyhounds, no; what should put that i’ your ’ead?” grunted our Master with a frown of disgust; adding, as he gnawed away at the stringy drumstick, “wouldn’t take a greyhound in a gift.”

The turkey being only very so-so, and the reindeer tongue rather worse, Mr. Jorrocks did not feel disposed to renew his acquaintance with either, and placing his knife and fork resignedly on his plate, determined to take his chance of the future. He remembered that in France the substantials sometimes did not come till late on.

Stiffneck, seeing his idleness, was presently at him with the dish of mince.

Mr. Jorrocks eyed it suspiciously, and then stirred the sliced lemon and meat about with the spoon. He thought at first of taking some, then he thought he wouldn’t, then he fixed he wouldn’t. “No,” said he, “no,” motioning it away with his hand, “no, I likes to chew my own meat.”

The rissoles were then candidates for his custom.

“Large marbles,” observed Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself—“large marbles.” repeated he, as he at length succeeded in penetrating the hide of one with a spoon. “Might as well eat lead,” observed he aloud, sending them away too.

“I often thinks now,” observed he, turning to his hostess, “that it would be a good thing, mum, if folks would ’gree to give up these stupid make-believe side-dishes, mum, for nobody ever eats them, at least if they do they’re sure to come off second best, for no cuk that ever was foaled can do justice to sich a wariety of wittles.”

“Oh! but, Mr. Jorrocks, how could you send up a dinner properly without them?” exclaimed the lady with mingled horror and astonishment.

“Properly without them, mum,” repeated our Master, coolly and deliberately; “properly without them, mum —why that’s jest wot I was meanin’,” continued he. “You see your cuk ’as sich a multitude o’ things to do, that it’s hutterly unpossible for her to send them all in properly, so ’stead o’ gettin’ a few things well done, ye get a great many only badly done.”

“Indeed!” fumed the lady, bridling with contempt.

“The great Duke o’ Wellington—no ’fence to the present one,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, with a low bow to the table—“who, I’m proud to say gets his tea o’ me too, —the great Duke o’ Wellington, mum, used to say, mum, that the reason why one seldom got a hegg well biled was ’cause the cuk was always a doin’ summut else at the same time, and that hobservation will apply purty well to most cuking hoperations.”

“Well, then, you’d have no plate on the table, I presume, Mr. Jorrocks?” observed the irascible lady.

“Plate on the table, mum—plate on the table, mum,” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, with the same provoking prolixity, “why I really doesn’t know that plate on the table’s of any great use. I minds the time when folks thought four silver side-dishes made gen’l’men on ’em, but since these Brummagem things turned hup, they go for a bit o’ land—land’s the ticket now,” observed our Master.

While this unpalatable conversation—unpalatable, at least, to our hostess—was going on, the first course was being removed, and a large, richly-ornamented cold game-pie made its appearance, which was placed before Mr. Muleygrubs.

“Large tart!” observed Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing it, thinking if he could help himself he might yet manage to make up his lee-way: “thought there was dark puddins comin’,” observed he to his hostess.

“Game and black puddings,” replied Mrs. Muleygrubs. “This comes between courses always.”

“Never saw it afore,” observed Mr. Jorrocks.

Mr. Marmaduke helped the pie very sparingly, just as he had seen the butler at Ongar Castle helping a pâtê de fois gras; and putting as much on to a plate as would make about a mouthful and a half to each person, he sent Stiffneck round with a fork to let people help themselves. Fortunately for Mr. Jorrocks, neither Mr. nor Miss De Green, nor Miss Slowan nor Mrs. Muleygrubs took any, and the untouched plate coming to him, he very coolly seized the whole, while the foot-boy returned to the dismayed Mr. Muleygrubs for more. Putting a few more scraps on a plate, Mr. Muleygrubs sent off the pie, lest any one should make a second attack.

By dint of plying a good knife and fork, our friend cleared his plate just as the second course made its appearance. This consisted of a brace of partridges guarding a diminutive snipe at the top, and three links of black-pudding at the bottom—stewed celery, potato chips, puffs, and tartlets forming the side-dishes.

“Humph!” grunted our friend, eyeing each dish as it was uncovered. “Humph!” repeated he—“not much there—three shillins for the top dish, one for the bottom, and eighteen-pence, say, for the four sides—five and six —altogether—think I could do it for five. Howsomever, never mind,” continued he, drawing the dish of game towards him. “Anybody for any gibier, as we say in France?” asked he, driving his fork into the breast of the plumpest of the partridges. Nobody closed with the offer.

“Pr’aps if you’d help it, and let it be handed round, some one will take some,” suggested Mr. Muleygrubs.

“Well,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “I’ve no objection—none wotever—only, while these clumsey chaps o’ yours are runnin’ agin each other with it, the wittles are coolin’— that’s all,” said our master, placing half a partridge on a plate, and delivering it up to go on its travels. Thinking it cut well, Mr. Jorrocks placed the other half on his own plate, and taking a comprehensive sweep of the crumbs and bread sauce, proceeded to make sure of the share by eating a mouthful of it. He need not have been alarmed, for no one came for any, and he munched and cranched his portion in peace. He then eat the snipe almost at a bite.

“What will you take next, Mr. Jorrocks?” asked his hostess, disgusted at his rapacity.

“Thank ’ee, mum, thank ’ee,” replied he, munching and clearing his mouth; “thank ’ee, mum,” added he, “I’ll take breath if you please, mum,” added he, throwing himself back in his chair.

“Have you killed many hares, Mr. Jorrocks?” now asked his persevering hostess, who was sitting on thorns as she saw an entering dish of blancmange toppling to its fall.

“No, mum, none!” responded our Master, vehemently, for he had an angry letter in his pocket from Captain Slaughter’s keeper, complaining bitterly of the recent devastation of his hounds—a calamity that of course the keeper made the most of, inasmuch as friend Jorrocks, as usual, had forgotten to give him his “tip.”

Our innocent hostess, however, never listened for the answer, for the blancmange having landed with the loss only of a corner tower, for it was in the castellated style of confectionery, she was now all anxiety to see what sort of a savoury omelette her drunken job-cook would furnish, to remove the black-puddings at the other end of the table.

During this interval, our Master, having thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his canary-coloured shorts, reconnoitred the table to see who would either ask him to take wine, or who he should honour that way: but not seeing any very prepossessing phiz, and recollecting that Mrs. J. had told him the good old-fashioned custom was “wulgar,” he was about to help himself from a conveniently-placed decanter, when Stiffneck, seeing what he was at, darted at the decanter, and passing behind Mr. Jorrocks’s chair, prepared to fill to his holding, when, missing his aim, he first sluiced our Master’s hand, and then shot a considerable quantity of sherry down his sleeve.

“Rot ye, ye great lumberin’ beggar!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, furiously indignant; “rot ye, do ye think I’m like Miss Biffin, the unfortunate lady without harms or legs, that I can’t ’elp myself?” continued he, dashing the wet out of his spoon cuff. “Now, that’s the wust o’ your flunkey fellers,” continued he in a milder tone to Mrs. Muleygrubs, as the laughter the exclamation caused had subsided. “That’s the wust o’ your flunkey fellers,” repeated he, mopping his arm; “they know they’d never be fools enough to keep fellers to do nothin’, and so they think they must be constantly meddlin’. Now, your women waiters are quite different,” continued he; “they only try for the useful, and not for the helegant. There’s no flash ’bout them. If they see a thing’s under your nose, they let you reach it, and don’t bring a dish that’s steady on the table round at your back to tremble on their ’ands under your nose. Besides,” added our Master, “you never see a bosky Batsay waiter, which is more than can be said of all dog un’s.”

“But you surely couldn’t expect ladies to be waited upon by women, Mr. Jorrocks,” exclaimed his astonished hostess.

“I would, though,” replied our Master, firmly, with a jerk of his head—“I would, though—I’d not only ’ave them waited upon by women, but I’d have them served by women i’ the shops, ’stead o’ those nasty dandified counter-skippin’ Jackanapes, wot set up their himperances in a way that makes one long to kick ’em.”

“How’s that, Mr. Jorrocks?” asked the lady, with a smile at his ignorance.

“’Ow’s that, mum?” repeated our Master—“’Ow’s that? Why, by makin’ you run the gauntlet of pr’aps a double row o’ these poopies, one holloain’ out—‘Wot shall I show you to-day, mum?’ Another, ‘Now, mum! French merino embroidered robes!’ A third, ‘Paisley and French wove shawls, mum! or Russian sables! chinchillas! hermines!’ or ‘Wot’s the next harticle, mum?’ as if a woman’s—I beg pardon—a lady’s wants were never to be satisfied—Oh dear, and with Christmas a comin’ on,” shuddered Mr. Jorrocks, with upraised hands; “wot a lot o’ squabbles and contentions ’ill shortly be let loose upon the world—bonnets, ribbons, sarsnets, bombazeens, things that the poor paymasters expected ’ad come out of the ’ouse money, or been paid for long ago.’‘

While Mr. Jorrocks was monopolizing the attention of the company by the foregoing domestic “lector” as it may be called, the denounced domestics were clearing away the sweets, and replacing them with a dish of red herrings, and a very strong-smelling, brown soapy-looking cheese.

Our Master, notwithstanding his efforts, being still in arrear with his appetite, thought to “fill up the chinks,” as he calls it, with cheese, so he took a liberal supply as the plate came round—nearly the half of it, in fact.

He very soon found out his mistake. It was strong, and salt, and leathery, very unlike what Paxton and Whitfield supplied him with.

“Good cheese! Mr. Jorrocks,” exclaimed his host, up the table; “good cheese, eh?”

“Humph!” grunted our Master, munching languidly at it.

“Excellent cheese, don’t you think so, Mr. Jorrocks?” asked his host, boldly.

“C-h-i-e-l-dren,” drawled our Master, pushing away his unfinished plate, “would eat any q-u-a-a-n-tity of it.”

The clearing of the table helped to conceal the ill-suppressed titter of the company.

And now with the dessert came an influx of little Muleygrubs, who had long been on guard in the passage intercepting the return viands, much to the nurse’s annoyance, lest they should stain their red-ribboned white frocks, or disorder their well-plastered hair. The first glare of light being out of their eyes, they proceed to distribute themselves according to their respective notions of good-natured faces; Magdalene Margery going to Mrs. Slowan, Leonora Lucretia to Miss De Green, and Victoria Jemima to Mr. Jorrocks, who forthwith begins handling her as he would a hound.

“And ’ow old are you, sir?” asks he, mistaking her sex.

“That’s a girl,” explained Mrs. Muleygrubs: “say four, my dear.”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Charmin’ child!” (aloud), (to himself) “little bore.”

“And wot do they call you, my little dear?” asked he; “ ‘Gravity,’—‘Notable,’—‘Habigail,’—‘Mischief,’ p’rhaps?” added he, running over the names of some of his lady hounds.

“No: Victoria.”—“Victoria, what?” asked mamma.

“Victoria Jemima,” lisped the child.

“Ah, Wictoria Jemima,” repeated Mr. Jorrocks “Wictoria Jemima—Wictoria arter the Queen. I presume; Jemima arter who? arter mamma, I dessay.”

Mrs. Muleygrubs smiled assent.

“Werry purty names both on ’em,” observed Mr. Jorrocks.

“And ’ow many pinches did the nus give your cheeks to make them this pretty pink?” asks our Master, making a long arm at the figs.

“Thre-e-e,” drawled the child.

“Hush! nonsense!” frowned Mrs. Muleygrubs, holding up a forefinger.

“She d-i-i-i-d!” whined the child, to the convulsion of the company.

“No, no, no,” responded Mrs. Muleygrubs. with an ominous shake of the head, and trying to direct her attention to a dish of sticky sweets that were just placed within reach.

“How many children have you, Mr. Jorrocks?” now asked the lady, thinking to pay him off for some of his gaucheries.

“’Ow many chi-e-l-dren ’ave I, mum?” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, thoughtfully. “’Ow many chi-e-l-dren ’ave I? Legally speakin’, mum, none.—Chi-e-l-dren,” continued our Master, dry-shaving his stubbly chin, “are certain cares, but werry uncertain comforts, as my old mother said when I hupset her snuff-box into the soup.”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid you’ve been a sad mischievous boy, Mr. Jorrocks,” observed the lady, motioning Stiffneck to put the almond-backed sponge-cake rabbit straight on the table.

“Poopeys and buoys never good for nothin’ unless they are—’Opes yours are well found that way?”

The inquiry was lost upon the lady, who was now in a state of desperate tribulation at seeing Stiffneck secundus bent on placing a second course sweet on the table instead of the dessert dish. A significant cough and a slight inclination of the head drew Stiffneck’s attention to the mistake, and our hostess has at length the satisfaction of seeing all things in their right places. Apples, pears, foreign grapes, all sorts of unwholesome fruit, having been duly handed round, the wine next set out on its travels; and Mr. Jorrocks, who had looked in vain for a water-biscuit, again turned his attention to the now lip-licking child.

“Well, my little dear,” said he, stroking down her head, and then tempting her to rise to a piece of sponge-cake held above her nose, “well, my little dear,” repeated he, giving her it, “do you like barley-sugar?”

“Yeth, and thugar candy,” lisped the child.

Mr. Jorrocks.—“Ah, sugar candy; sugar candy’s grand stuff. I sell sugar candy.”

Victoria Jemima (in amazement).—“Thell thugar candy! I thought you were a gempleman!”

Mr. Jorrocks.—“A commercial gen’leman, my dear!”

Victoria Jemima.—“Not a great gempleman like pa?”

Mr. Jorrocks (with humility).—“No; not a great gempleman like pa. He’s a Peerage man, I’m only a Post Hoffice Directory one,” Mr. Jorrocks looking slyly at his host as he said it. “Howsomever, never mind,” continued our Master, helping himself liberally as the fleet of bottles again anchored before him. “Howsomever, never mind; when you comes to see me at ’Andley Cross, I’ll give you a pund o’ sugar candy, and show you my ’ounds,” added he, passing the bottles.

“And the bear!” exclaimed the delighted child.

“Bear, my dear! I’ve no bear,” replied Mr. Jorrocks soberly.

Mrs. Muleygrubs (with a frown, and a forefinger held up as before).—“Hush, Victoria Jemima! don’t talk nonsense.”

Victoria Jemima (pouting).—“W-a-l-e, m-a-a-r, you know you said Mr. Jonnocks was next door to a bear.”

Mrs. Muleygrubs, whose quick apprehension saw the mischief her daughter was drawing up to, cannoned a smiling glance at Mrs. Slowan off on Miss De Green on the opposite side of the table, and rose, vowing as she drove the party out before her, that one ought “never to say anything before children.”