t. He had a general
licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of
it.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations
of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely,
without hauling it into the reader's presence with indecent haste by the
head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the
very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to
Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble's new secretary, just imported from London, with a
pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of
his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman's Arms, and
inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced
himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire,
requiring Mr. Twigger's immediate attendance at the hall, on private and
particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger's interest to
affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a slight sigh, and
followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog
streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight,
which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a
large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned
Twigger.

'Well, Twigger!' said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, 'Well, Nick!' but that
was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey;
so, he only bowed.

'I want you to go into training, Twigger,' said Mr. Tulrumble.

'What for, sir?' inquired Ned, with a stare.

'Hush, hush, Twigger!' said the Mayor. 'Shut the door, Mr. Jennings.
Look here, Twigger.'

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a
complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

'I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,' said the Mayor.

'Bless your heart and soul, sir!' replied Ned, 'you might as well ask me
to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.'

'Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!' said the Mayor.

'I couldn't stand under it, sir,' said Twigger; 'it would make mashed
potatoes of me, if I attempted it.'

'Pooh, pooh, Twigger!' returned the Mayor. 'I tell you I have seen it
done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn't half such a man as
you are, either.'

'I should