nt his thirteen celebrated sisters,--Biddy, Minny, Thedy, Widdy
(short for Williamina), Freddy, Izzy, Tizzy, Mysie, Grizzy, Polly, Dolly,
Nell, and Bell--all married, all ugly, and all carr'ty hair. And of
which are you the son, young man?--though, to do you justice, you're not
like the family."

Two pretty young ladies turned two pretty pairs of black eyes at me, and
waited for an answer: which they would have had, only the old lady began
rattling on a hundred stories about the thirteen ladies above named, and
all their lovers, all their disappointments, and all the duels of Mick
Hoggarty. She was a chronicle of fifty-years-old scandal. At last she
was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing; at the conclusion of which
Mr. Polonius very respectfully asked me where he should send the pin, and
whether I would like the hair kept.

"No," says I, "never mind the hair."

"And the pin, sir?"

I had felt ashamed about telling my address: "But, bang it!" thought I,
"why _should_ I?--

'A king can make a belted knight,
A marquess, duke, and a' that;
An honest man's abune his might--
Gude faith, he canna fa' that.'

Why need I care about telling these ladies where I live?"

"Sir," says I, "have the goodness to send the parcel, when done, to Mr.
Titmarsh, No. 3 Bell Lane, Salisbury Square, near St. Bride's Church,
Fleet Street. Ring, if you please, the two-pair bell."

"_What_, sir?" said Mr. Polonius.

"_Hwat_!" shrieked the old lady. "Mr. Hwat? Mais, ma chere, c'est
impayable. Come along--here's the carr'age! Give me your arm, Mr. Hwat,
and get inside, and tell me all about your thirteen aunts."

She seized on my elbow and hobbled through the shop as fast as possible;
the young ladies following her, laughing.

"Now, jump in, do you hear?" said she, poking her sharp nose out of the
window.

"I can't, ma'am," says I; "I have a friend."

"Pooh, pooh! send 'um to the juice, and jump in!" And before almost I
could say a word, a great powdered fellow in yellow-plush breeches pushed
me up the steps and banged the door to.

I looked just for one minute as the barouche drove away at Hoskins, and
never shall forget his figure. There stood Gus, his mouth wide open, his
eyes staring, a smoking cheroot in his hand, wondering with all his might
at the strange thing that had just happened to me.

"Who _is_ that Titmarsh?" says Gus: "there's a coronet on the carriage,
by Jingo!"

CHAPTER