ters in white aprons, with six
plethoric fiddlers and tooters, were also in Smith's programme. Jipson
at first was puzzled to know where he could find volunteers to fill two
dozen chairs, but when night came, Mr. Theophilus Smith, by force of
tactics truly wonderful, drummed in a force to face a gross of plates,
napkins and wine glasses.

Mrs. Jipson was evidently astonished, the Misses J. not a little vexed
at the "raft" of elegant ladies present, and the independent manner in
which they monopolized attention and made themselves at home.

Jipson swore inwardly, and looked like "a sorry man." Smith was at home,
in his element; he was head and foot of the party. Himself and friends
soon led and ruled the feast. The band struck up; the corks flew, the
wine _fizzed_, the ceilings were spattered, and the walls tattooed with
Burgundy, Claret and Champagne!

"To our host!" cries Smith.

"Yes--ah! 'ere's--ah! to our a--our host!" echoes another swell, already
insolently "corned."

"Where the--a--where is our worthy host?" says another specimen of
"above Bleecker street" genteel society. "I--a say, trot out your host,
and let's give the old fellow a toast!"

"Ha! ha! b-wavo! b-wavo!" exclaimed a dozen shot-in-the-neck bloods,
spilling their wine over the carpets, one another, and table covers.

"This is intolerable!" gasps poor Jipson, who was in the act of being
kept _cool_ by his wife, in the drawing-room.

"Never mind, Jipson----"

"Ah! there's the old fellaw!" cries one of the swells.

"I-ah--say, Mister----"

"Old roostaw, I say----"

"Gentlemen!" roars Jipson, rushing forward, elevating his voice and
fists.

"For heaven's sake! Jipson," cries the wife.

"Gentlemen, or bla'guards, as you are."

"Oh! oh! Jipson, will you hear me?" imploringly cries Mrs. Jipson.

"What--ah--are you at? Does he--ah----"

"Yes, what--ah--does old Jip say?"

"Who the deuce, old What's-your-name, do you call gentlemen?" chimes in
a third.

"Bla'guards!" roars Jipson.

"Oh, veri well, veri well, old fellow, we--ah--are--ah--to blame
for--ah--patronizing a snob," continues a swell.

"A what?" shouts Jipson.

"A plebeian!"

"A codfish--ah----"

"Villains! scoundrels! bla'guards!" shouts the outraged Jipson, rushing
at the intoxicated swells, and hitting right and left, upsetting chairs,
tables, and lamps.

"Murder!" cries a knocked down guest.

"E-e-e-e-e-e!" scream the ladies.

"Don't! E-e-e-e! don't kill my f