CHAPTER LXXV

THE JUG AND HIS LUNCHEON, OR MR. AND MRS. BOWDEROUKINS’S DINNER PARTY

R. and MRS. BOWDEROUKINS were honest, equitable, give-and-take folks, who loved society, which, in their opinion, consisted in eating and drinking periodically with their neighbours. Mirth, wit, humour, entered not into their calculations; three courses and a dessert being all they considered necessary. Hence everything was most studiously arranged in the most apple-pie order, with, at the same time, a sort of extempore air—Bowderoukins often demanding in a loud and audible voice from his end of the table, “What have you got there, Mistress Bowderoukins?” as if he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was; while Mrs. Bowderoukins on her part was equally elegant, never knowing until the dish was uncovered.

“Partridges!” Bowdey would exclaim, as the upturned legs now appeared on the scene.

“Pardon!” Mrs. Bowdey would reply; “gwouse, my dear.”

“Hem—gwouse, are they,” Bowdey would rejoin, as if he had never heard of them before, though he very likely had the bill receipted, with the discount taken off for them, in his pocket.

Bowdey, as the country people called him, had been in the linen line; and Mrs. Roukins’s father had been in the flannel trade; but all that was forgotten now, save when they plushed or powdered their footman, set up a dinner bell, or committed any other act of saltation against the peace of their longer retired neighbours’ pride and dignity. Then the shop was resuscitated, and the invidious question asked, “Who are these Bowderoukins’s?”

Most people are Dutch-auctioned occasionally—put up at their highest, and run down to their lowest point, so it is of very little use being at the trouble of appraising themselves—the world does it for them, and, generally speaking, not unfairly either. Still, with all the powder and plush, and pulling to pieces, the Bowderoukins’s were a nice plummy pair, well matched, and very “comfortable,” which latter term may be variously interpreted—some ladies thinking four men-servants to wait upon them, some three, some two, others one, “comfort,” or rather the height of happiness.

The Bowderoukins’s residence, Rosella Lodge, was a pretty place—pretty even in the eyes of a stranger—beautiful of course in those of an owner. It was in the cottage ornée style, with neat lattice windows peeping out of the heather-thatched roof, and a green verandah encircling the whole; the pillars plentifully entwined with roses and flowering shrubs. It stood at the bottom of a little round Hassock’s heath-like hill, on whose rock-rugged sides Spruce, Scotch firs, and ferns flourished with healthy vigour, as though they wished no better place. Bowdey had planned the house himself, and if it lacked some of the comforts that a scientific architect would have given it, Bowdey had the satisfaction of knowing that he had saved said architect’s fees, and was entitled to the credit of all the commendation that was lavished upon it. In truth, Bowdey had rather sacrificed comfort to appearances, for though the receiving-rooms, library, drawing, and dining-room en suite, were good, the bed-rooms at either end of the house were only so so, and liable to the intrusion of beetles, earwigs, and other undesirable insects.

To be such a fat, comfortable-looking man, Mr. Bowderoukins was a desperate fidget, always looking at his watch, always dreading to be late, always fearing people were not going to arrive. On his grand company days he was more than usually fidgetty, wondering why Paul didn’t lay the cloth, wondering why Mrs. Empson the cook didn’t put down the meat, fearing lest the fish mightn’t come, or the tea-cakes be late. He was always a good hour in advance of the day; and instead of running after time, was always hurrying other people up to it. If Bowdey had had to cook the dinner and wait as well, he could not have been in a greater stew; whereas all he had to do was to sit quietly in his easy arm-chair, exclaiming at intervals, “What have you got there, Mistress Bowderoukins?” and so on to the end of the short dialogue appropriated to the piece.

Country hospitality being regulated a good deal by the moon, it so happened that what in the hunting calendar would be called the “Hassocks hill day,” had been fixed upon by our friends (if they will allow us to call them so) for the usual quarterly display of plate, linen, and china; and after the usual amount of prevarication, for people can fib in the country almost as well as they can in the towns, a full table full of guests had been engaged to assist at the demolition of a turbot, a Yorkshire pie, a Norfolk turkey hung in Dorking sausages, and other delicacies too numerous to insert in anything but a cookery book, all of which had given our host and hostess an amazing amount of trouble to get and prepare. As the time approached, the excitement became more intense; so much so indeed that, on the day of the great event, Bowderoukins could neither settle to his paper, nor his books, nor yet to that last solace of all—the contemplation of his accounts. He was in and out, backwards and forwards, here, there, and everywhere.

Being a man of pro—o—perty (eighteen acres in a ring-fence), Bowderoukins of course patronised the chase. We don’t mean to say that he piled his fat self on a saddle; for, in truth, he was too wash-bally for riding, but he talked affably about hunting, hoped the red-coats he met had had good sport, said he supposed Mr. Jovey Jessop had a good set of dogs that year, hoped foxes were plentiful, and so on. Now it so happened that, in order to allay the fever of excitement, and perhaps prevent himself committing an assault, he took frequent trots down to the green gate at the end of the little curved drive opening upon the Kelvingdon and Hassocks Heath road, and, as luck would have it on the third excursion, just as he was rubbing his nose on his hand as he leant with his arm on the uppermost rail, who should come riding along but the Jug and our hero Mr. Bunting.

“Holloa! Mr. Boyston!” exclaimed Mr. Bowderoukins to old hot boots, “How are you?” opening the gate and going out to greet him as Boyston came up. Then seeing a stranger, Bowdey gave Bunting a full view of his large bald turnip-shaped head, by raising his green-brimmed drab wide-a-wake hat to him.

“Well, and what sport have you had?” asked he, as soon as Mr. Bunting’s cap was restored to his head.

“Oh, very good, at least, very fair, middling—that is to say,” muttered Boyston, in the indistinct sort of way of a man who has lost the hounds.

“Killed!” asked Bowderoukins, who considered killing the real criterion of sport. In shooting he knew that hitting was everything.

“Yes, no, yes, can’t ’zactly tell,” replied Boyston; “the fact is, the hounds (cough), the river (hem), the hills (hum)—you couldn’t give us a glass of ale could you?”

“By all means,” replied Mr. Bowderoukins; “glass of sherry, too, if you like, and a biscuit.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed the Jug, “just a glass of ale— wouldn’t touch a drop of wine in a morning if it was ever so.”

“Well, but p’raps your friend will,” replied the hospitable Mr. Bowderoukins, looking at Mr. Bunting as he now opened the green gate for them to enter.

They then passed through, and, leaving the gate to swing to at its leisure, proceeded up the slightly ascending drive, Mr. Bowderoukins waddling and puffing and blowing in the uncomfortable sort of way of a pursy little gentleman trying to keep up a conversation with people on horseback.

“Gwacious goodness, who’s here!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowderoukins, who was superintending the removal of the drugget from the dining-room carpet, as the last turn of the road brought the guests in full view of the house, and of course the house in full view of the guests. “Goodness gwacious! I do believe it’s the Jug—the Jug and a stranger! Whatever can Mr. Bowderoukins mean by bringing these people here on such a day as this?”

“Oh dear! on dear! I’d rather see anybody than that great red-faced man.” The latter exclamation proceeded from one of the crimson curtains of the ground-reaching windows of the dining-room, where Maria the parlour-maid was busy distributing and pyramiding the napkins to the fourteen chairs for the fourteen guests, who were expected to partake of Rosella Lodge hospitality.

We need not say Mrs. Roukins was desperately alarmed, for, independently of not being in company-trim, having on an old stained blue and soot-coloured silk dress, with a very ordinary collar, she well knew that very little interruption at this time of day would throw the whole establishment out of gearing, and make it as useless as an engine run off the railway. But if she was not in apple-pie order, the drawing-room was— carpet uncovered, mirror unmuslined, and all the infatuated worsted-work that ladies so much prefer to making their own clothes—developed for the occasion. Well she knew what little respect was paid by dirty-booted sportsmen to such decorations. She had absolutely seen old fat farmer Whickenrake souse down on her floss silk pheasants as if they had been a truss of straw. All these considerations flashed across her mind with inconceivable velocity, causing her to bundle Maria out of the room, and rush into the kitchen to consult with the cook.

Bowdey, too, had his misgivings, and now said in a loud and audible voice, as he pulled up and gave the brightly burnished knob of the sash-door bell a pull, “You’re sure you won’t take anything but a glass of ale?”

“Well, no, I think not,” drawled the Jug, looking undecidedly at Mr. Bunting; and then adding, “No, nothing, unless it were a pail of gruel for the horses.”

“Pail of gruel for the horses,” repeated Mr. Bowderoukins; “pail of gruel for the horses, certainly; will you have it here or——?” dreading to name where.

“P’raps we may as well put them into the stable for a few minutes,” observed Mr. Boyston to Mr. Bunting.

“Well,” assented Mr. Bunting, who now looked upon Mr. Boyston as master of the horse.

The “well” palled on Mr. Bowderoukins’s ear like a death-knell. He wished he had never gone to the gate.

Mrs. Bowderoukins, too, though out of ear-shot, saw by the movement there was mischief, and dreaded the result. Mrs. Tom Tucker, too, coming to dine—a woman who saw and told everything. “Oh dear! Bowderoukins must be ——.” So saying, she hurried away to the dairy-window, which commanded a view of the yard, and there saw the dreadful apparition of the two red-coats alighting from their horses and leading them into the stable. “They shalln’t come in the back way, at all events,” said she to herself, bolting the door and turning the key in the lock. Archy Ellenger had once slipped in that way and caught her whipping a cream. Nor was Mrs. Bowderoukins premature in her movements, for scarcely had she communicated her worst fears to the cook ere a rattle at the latch, followed by a kick from one of the Jug’s great thick-soled boots, announced an attempt to get in by the forbidden way.

“Come round to the front door!” now holloaed Bowderoukins from the centre of the yard. “Come round to the front door!” repeated he, extending his right arm in the direction he wanted them to go. The trio then formed and retraced their steps to the front. Dreadful, indeed, was now the agony of Mrs. Bowderoukins. She saw there was going to be a pretty kettle of fish. Bowdey, too, was in such a state of tribulation, that Mr. Bunting’s flattering observations on the beauty of his place were wholly lost in considering what he should do with his guests—where he should put them— what he should give them; above all, how he should get rid of them. Meanwhile the old Jug trudged on in his usual stolid way—his whip under his arm, his hands behind his back, and the accumulated mud of the day clustering on his boots. How Bowderoukins shuddered as he looked at them. “Unlucky man, that he was! What the deuce sent him down to the gate! Why didn’t he let them pass?” The trio were now, however, again at the door, which Paul had left open, as if expecting a return; and our greatly perturbed host made a last desperate effort to get rid of them by saying, “Will you have your ale here? get it in a minute! you know,” —looking as if he would run for it himself.

“May as well go in, now that we have got off our horses,” replied the Jug, stumping into the passage, and taking off his hat, he stuck his whip in his coat-pocket, in a quite-at-home sort of way. Mr. Bunting followed on, and there was then no help for it. A rapid retrospect made Bowderoukins resolve to brave it out in the dining-room, hoping that the sight of coming company might act as a hint to the strangers not to stay. So he threw open the door, and in they walked.

“Humph, dinner party, have you?” observed the Jug, looking at the long table; “though I smelt soup —dessay you could let us have a basin—just the thing for this time of day.”

“By all means,” replied the disconcerted Bowderoukins, adding, “I’ll go and see after it myself, in order that you may not be detained.” So saying, he hurried out of the room and nearly upset Mrs. Bowderoukins, who was listening at the key-hole.

“Oh, Bowderoukins! Bowderoukins!” whispered she, with ill-suppressed anger, as she followed him hastily along the passage—“how could you ever do such a thing—how are we to manage matters? What possible occasion was there for you to bring in these hungry fox-hunters? fox-hunters! of all men the most rapacious!”

“My dear, I didn’t bring them in,” whispered Bowdey, turning short upon her; “they invited themselves—didn’t you hear them asking for soup?”

“Soup, my dear, they can’t have soup! There’s only just as much as will serve the party.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed Mr. Bowderoukins, perplexed beyond measure. “What can they have then?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Bowderoukins. “There’s stewed pears, or cheese-cakes, or tartlets, or something of that sort.”

“Oh, stewed pears or tartlets will do nothing for fox-hunters,” snapped Mr. Bowderoukins; “must be meat of some sort—do let us get them something and set them away as soon as we can, or they will assuredly drive us into a fix with our dinner.”

“I feel that they’ll do that as it is,” whined Mrs. Bowderoukins, “and I’m sure there’s no occasion for any mismanagement with Mrs. Tom Tucker coming. Don’t you remember how she quizzed Mrs. Frogbrook, and talked of Mrs. Dixey and her doings?”

The name of Tucker seemed to exasperate Bowderoukins, who, dashing at a fine stilton cheese as it now stood up to its chin in a clean damask napkin, hurried away with it, calling to Paul to put on his coat and follow with a loaf of bread and some beer as quickly as possible.

When Mr. Bowderoukins returned to the dining-room, he found the Jug sitting with his back to the fire, resting his great heavy head on his arm on the top of the chair, which he had turned round for the purpose, with a perfect shower of mud under each distended leg on the smart Turkey carpet.

“Here!” exclaimed Bowderoukins, with ill-counter-feited glee, holding the cheese high above his head, “I know you fox-hunters don’t like to be kept waiting, so I’ve brought you the first thing I could lay hold of,” placing the cheese on the table just opposite the Jug as he spoke.

“Humph! Cheese is it,” observed the Jug, carelessly; “I thought you said soup.”

“The soup wouldn’t be ready this half-hour,” replied Mr. Bowderoukins, “and I thought you would like to be doing.”

“Oh, why, we’re in no hurry for that matter,” drawled the Jug—“don’t dine till six thirty; however, as the cheese has come, we may as well attack it,” continued he, advancing his chair a little as he sat, to the great detriment of the joints. He then dived deeply into the cheese, and, having helped himself plentifully, pushed it along to Mr. Bunting. The bread and beer then appeared.

Munch, munch, munch, now went the Jug, in the steady deliberate sort of way in which he did everything. Munch, munch, munch, continued he, to the evident horror of his host.

“Have a little ale,” suggested Mr. Bowderoukins, slightly elevating his tenpenny—pointing to the foaming tankard as he spoke.

“Presently,” replied the Jug, without taking his eyes off the cheese.

“Deuce take the fellow,” inwardly growled Mr. Bowderoukins, wishing he had never seen his great red face.

Munch, munch, munch, went the leisurely Jug as before.

“Now I’ll have a little,” at last said the Jug, looking up and holding his glass out to be filled.

“With pleasure,” replied Mr. Bowderoukins, pouring him out a bumper, which the Jug disposed of at a draught.

“Not very strong,” observed he, setting the glass down.

“Can have some bottled Bass if you prefer it,” observed Mr. Bowderoukins, incautiously.

“Bottled Bass, can I?” repeated the Jug; adding, after a pause, “Well, I don’t care if I have a little bottled Bass.”

Mr. Bowderoukins rang the bell vehemently.

“Bottle of ale, Paul!” exclaimed he as the footman entered.

“Yes, sir,” said the man-boy, retiring.

“Quick!” exclaimed Bowderoukins, adding, “the gentlemen are in a hurry.”

“No, we’re not,” replied the Jug, again attacking the cheese.

The Bass was a good deal better than the beer, and the Jug, having swigged off a glass, said he felt all the better for it.

“Have another!” exclaimed his host, holding up the bottle.

“Presently,” replied the Jug, returning to his cheese.

“Oh, Bowderoukins, Bowderoukins, what a goothe you are,” lisped his agonised wife, who had now returned to her listening-place at the door. “However is a dinner to be served under such circumstances?”

Meanwhile the phlegmatic Jug jogged on with his cheese with his usual stolid vacancy, Mr. Bunting only eating for conformity. At length the Jug’s appetite was apparently appeased, and having drained the bottle of Bass, he rose from his seat, and taking a coat-lap under each arm, proceeded to warm himself before the fire. Having duly sucked his teeth and made all sorts of incoherent noises with his mouth, he began to take a vacant survey of the room, the ceiling, the pictures, the sideboard, &c. As ill-luck would have it, there was a bottle of sherry on the latter, minus a couple of glasses that Mrs. Bowderoukins had just extracted for the mock-turtle soup; and the Jug, having made a good steady point at it from where he stood, at length said, “Is that sherry?” nodding at the bottle as he spoke.

“She—she—sherry!” ejaculated Mr. Bowderoukins; “no, b—b—brandy,” thinking to choke the Jug off.

“Ah, well, brandy will do as well,” observed the Jug, carelessly taking a wine-glass from beside him and trudging round the long table to where the bottle stood on the sideboard. He then poured himself out a glass, and, after smelling at the contents, drank it off with a gulp. “Brandy!” exclaimed he, smacking his great thick lips; “brandy! sherry, I should say, not bad either. Have a glass, Bunting,” continued he, appealing to our friend as he approached him with the bottle.

“Oh dear! oh dear! this will never do,” mused Mrs. Bowderoukins, who overheard the movement and observation from where she stood. “I must make a desperate effort to get rid of them;” so saying, she rose and hurried away to Paul’s pantry, who was now putting the last polish on to the plate. “Go into the dining-room—not as if from me, you know,” said she, sotto voce—“and ask the gentlemen if they would like to have their horses round.”

“Yes, Mum,” replied Paul, taking down the blue red-edged livery-coat from the peg behind the door and wriggling himself into it as he went. he opened the dining-room door noiselessly, and, gliding in, addressing Mr. Boyston, said, “Please, sir, would you like to have your horses round, sir?”

“Presently,” replied the Jug—“presently,” pouring himself out another glass of sherry, and resuming his backward seat on the chair before the fire, with the bottle full before him.

“That’s Gordon’s Golden, I should say,” observed the Jug, smacking his lips, and looking at the now diminished quantity.

“No, Christopher’s,” replied Mr. Bowderoukins.

“Christopher’s, is it?” replied the Jug, taking another glass, as if to satisfy himself on the point. “Christopher’s, in Great Coram Street—I know him,” continued he, drinking the wine off. “Very good it is,” added the Jug, nursing his glass on his knee—with the evident view of replenishing it. “You haven’t such a thing as a biscuit in the house, have you?” asked he, addressing Mr. Bowderoukins.

“Biscuit,” gasped Bowderoukins—thinking his guests would never go—“biscuit!” repeated he, “Yes, I dare say I have,” ringing the bell as he spoke.

Great was Mrs. Bowderoukins’s horror when she found the summons was not for the horses. At first she declared there were no biscuits, although she had a whole bag-full in the store-room, then considering the voracious fox-hunters might demand something else, she determined to give them some biscuits, and tell Paul to make another announcement about the horses, so, getting a plate, she put a couple of biscuits upon it, and desired Paul to let the gentlemen know their horses had done their gruel.

“Done, have they?” replied the Jug carelessly, helping himself to a biscuit—“done, have they—well, then, give them each a feed of corn”—stretching his arm out again for the bottle as he spoke.

The Jug then looked first at one great boot, and then at the other, and finally cocking up his heels, began jingling his spur against the French-polished chair-legs, with his glass on his knee, and a steady eye on the bottle.

Thus he continued for some minutes, Mr. Bunting and his host mutually wishing he would go. Mrs. Bowderoukins, like all people away from the absolute scene of action, was doubly solicitous, imagining all sorts of misfortunes; now that they would upset the bottle all down the fine pheasant-patterned table-cloth, now that they would all get drunk together, now that the Jug would catch the cloth with his spur, and drag the whole contents of the table on to the floor—candelabra, candlesticks, china-vases, wax-flowers, and all. At length she could contain herself no longer, and, summoning Paul again, she desired him to go into the dining-room and tell the gentlemen their horses were quite ready.

“Please, sir, your horses are quite ready,” said Paul, addressing the Jug, who had just helped himself to another bumper of wine.

“Oh, Paul! Paul! why persecutest thou me!” exclaimed the Jug peevishly, amidst the mirth of the party at his unwonted explosion.

It was now clearly a case of “finish the bottle;” so Mr. Bowderoukins, changing his tactics, directed his exertions that way. “Help yourself!” exclaimed he gaily, as the Jug sat nursing his glass on his knee; “I’m afraid you don’t like the wine.”

“Oh, yes I do,” replied the Jug; “the wine’s good wine.”

“It is good wine,” assented Mr. Bowderoukins, “the best I can buy”

The Jug then showed his appreciation of it by taking another glass.

The wine presently approached the bottom of the bottle; and Mr. Bowderoukins, determining not to be inveigled into a second bottle, seized an empty glass, and helping himself to a small quantity of wine, held the glass up, saying, “Well, sir, I’ll give you our next merry meeting!”

“Our next merry meeting,” growled the Jug, in his usual lugubrious accents.

Having quaffed off the glass, he sat a few seconds with it on his knee, as if to be sure there was no more wine coming. Mr. Bunting, who had noticed their host’s perturbation, now came to the rescue by saying, he supposed they had better be going.

“Well, I suppose we had,” replied the Jug, rising and shaking the further dried mud off his boots as he set down the glass on the table.

“Will you go to the stable or have the horses brought to the door?” now asked Mr. Bowderoukins.

“May as well have them to the door,” replied the Jug, who didn’t like trouble.

“I’ll go and send them round, then,” said Mr. Bowderoukins, hurrying out of the room, and communicating the glad intelligence to his half-frantic wife that they were going at last.

“Have a weed?” now asked the Jug, diving into his breast-pocket and producing a greasy old Russia leather cigar-case as he spoke, and offering the choice of a row of cigars to our friend.

“Thanks,” replied Mr. Bunting, helping himself to one; adding, “we mustn’t smoke here, though, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” rejoined the Jug, taking a cedar match out of the bronze stand on the black marble mantel-piece and applying it to the fire. “These things are meant to light them with,” said he; so saying, he used one for the purpose, and putting it to the cigar, presently raised a good cloud of smoke.

“Gwacious goodness, they’re smoking, I do believe!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowderoukins, who had the greatest horror of tobacco, and knew that Mrs. Tom Tucker had too. “Oh, Bowdey, Bowdey, run and hurry them with their horses, or they’ll make the whole house reek like a tenth-rate tavern.”

Whereupon Bowderoukins crowned himself again with his drab wide awake, and rushed frantically up to the stable just as the Jug’s horse put his head out of the door. “Quick, Paul, quick!” cried he to the footman who had charge of it, “the gentlemen are in a hurry to be off!—the gentlemen are in a hurry to be off!”

But when Paul, followed by Dick Harwood, the pottering man of all work, hurried into the ring before the house they caused no corresponding activity in the parlour within, for the Jug just went on puffing and blowing dense clouds of smoke above and around his great fiery face.

“Horses are come! horses are come!” exclaimed Bowderoukins, opening the dining-room door, as if to promote the egress of his guests.

(Puff) “I see,” (puff) said the Jug, staring vacantly at them through the window, and resuming his cigar.

“Can I lend you a Mackintosh, a paletot, or an overcoat of any sort?” now asked Mr. Bowderoukins, still standing at the open door.

“No, (puff) I’ll (puff) as I am,” replied the Jug, emitting a voluminous cloud over his great red face.

“Well, then, let us be off,” said Mr. Bunting, who really began to feel ashamed of his friend.

“Off, (puff) off!” replied the Jug; “why, I’ve been (puffing) for you.”

“The deuce you have,” said Mr. Bunting; “I wish I’d known that before;” adding, “come, then, let’s go.”

The Jug then dived into his coat-pockets, and fishing up first a pair of old dog-skin gloves, and then a pair of dirty white mits, proceeded to thrust his hands and wrists in them. That feat being accomplished, he then looked leisurely at Mr. Bunting and said, “Now I’m your (puff) man.”

“Bye old (puff) boy,” said the Jug, now advancing and tendering a fat gloved hand to his host.

“Good bye,” exclaimed the emancipated Bowdey, grasping it fervidly.

“I’ll (puff) in upon you again the first time I’m (puffing) this way,” observed the Jug.

“Do!” exclaimed Mr. Bowderoukins, again shaking him heartily by the hand, thinking the Jug would be very sly if he got in.

Mr. Bunting then tendered his adieus; and proceeding to the door, the Jug got his horse punched as close up to the step as he could, to enable him to mount with as little trouble as possible; and having gained the saddle he drew rein, and feeling him gently with his spur, passed on to let Mr. Bunting mount the same way. That done, the two red-coated gentlemen sauntered away, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bowderoukins eyeing and objurgating them from the dining-room window.

“Was there ever such a man as that Mr. Boyston!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowderoukins, from behind the window curtain; “was there ever such a man as that Mr. Boyston! He’s made the place smell like a pot-house. Wonder you let them in, Mr. Bowderoukins,” added she, shaking with vexation.

“Couldn’t keep them out, my dear, couldn’t keep them out,” replied Mr. Bowderoukins, soothingly; “fox-hunters, you know, will be in. It’s the red coat that does it—it’s the red coat that does it.”

“Oh fiddle! I’ve no notion of anything of the sort. I don’t see why they should have the run of one’s house any more than soldiers or sailors or other way-faring people.”

The rising dialogue was here interrupted by a horse’s nose, with a silver crest (a star fish) flopping over its forehead, suddenly rounding the laurel clump of the drive, causing the now terrified Mr. Bowderoukins to ejaculate,

“What have we got here, Mistress Bowderoukins?”

“Oh, gwacious goodness! it’s Mrs. Mitchison. That unhappy woman’s clock is always half an hour fast.” So saying, she rushed out of the room, and hurried up stairs to arrange her toilette, amid the clamorous peal of the door-bell—strange servants always making a point of pulling as hard as they can. And ere Mrs. Bowderoukins got her best bib and tucker on, another and another peal sounded furiously through the house, another and another letting down of steps was heard, another and another slamming to of doors and grinding away to the back premises.

Mr. and Mrs. Bowderoukins were both in extremis. Bowdey couldn’t find his best blue Saxony coat, or Mrs. Roukins her cameo bracelet or cashmere shawl. At length, after almost superhuman exertions, they accomplished their programmes, and came smiling into the drawing-room, full of apologies to the now grinning but lately groaning guests for not being ready to receive them. “The fact was, some fox-hunting friends had dropped in and ra-a-ther detained them. But they hoped,” &c. And then the conversation took a fox-hunting turn.

“Did Mr. Bowderoukins hunt?”

“No, Mr. Bowderoukins didn’t hunt—had given it up—used to be very fond of it;” most people thinking it necessary to pay hunting the compliment of pretending they liked it once.

Then the door-bell rang again furiously—more company coming—the dread Mrs. Tucker this time, followed quickly by the Bondells and the Holleydales, and, lastly, the Freemans, who brought young Mr. Shuttleworth, who was suitoring Miss Harriet, instead of papa, who had got a twinge of the gout. And when the conversation, which became rather languid, had got cherished up into a pretty good cry, dinner was announced; and after a little backing and bowing, and “you before-me-ing,” the guests, Mr. Shuttleworth and Miss Harriet included, all got arranged in pretty good order in the tobacco-smelling dining-room, the scent of which, however, was forgotten on the second explosion of the popular sparkling beverage.

So lunch and the dinner did not clash after all, an announcement that we are sure will give great satisfaction to our housekeeping readers, and encourage them to be generous to the old fox-hunting Jugs, whose name in some countries is Legion!