-last
of all it bore, in red letters, the words, 'To Stiffun's Acre;' and then
Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently
matured.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and
Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating
that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of
slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then wrote another
letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots--for they kept a
pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard. 'Come in,' said Mr.
Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again
desired to 'come in,' brought in the body and the legs to which the head
belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

'You are the upper-boots, I think?' inquired Mr. Trott.

'Yes, I am the upper-boots,' replied a voice from inside a velveteen
case, with mother-of-pearl buttons--'that is, I'm the boots as b'longs to
the house; the other man's my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs.
Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.'

'You're from London?' inquired Mr. Trott.

'Driv a cab once,' was the laconic reply.

'Why don't you drive it now?' asked Mr. Trott.

'Over-driv the cab, and driv over a 'ooman,' replied the top-boots, with
brevity.

'Do you know the mayor's house?' inquired Mr. Trott.

'Rather,' replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason
to remember it.

'Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?' interrogated
Trott.

'Shouldn't wonder,' responded boots.

'But this letter,' said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic
direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other--'this letter is
anonymous.'

'A--what?' interrupted the boots.

'Anonymous--he's not to know who it comes from.'

'Oh! I see,' responded the reg'lar, with a knowing wink, but without
evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge--'I
see--bit o' Sving, eh?' and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in
quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. 'But, I say!' he continued,
recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott.
'I say, he's a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County. If you've a
spite agen him, you'd better not burn his house down--blessed if I don't
think it would be the greatest favour you could do him.' And he chuckled
inwardly.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any ot