ss than three
vehicles at our establishment. As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and
Orlando, were sitting in the back-parlor over our dinner (it being
Christmas-time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port,
and was longing that there should be a mistletoe-bough: at which
proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):--we
had just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows
out, "La, Pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!"

And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough--Mrs. Breadbasket in deep
mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back
shop. My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the
world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was
very kind of her to come. "La, mem," says Mrs. B., "I'm sure I'd
do anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear
Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that's gone."

"That's what?" cries my wife.

"What, gone?" cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls
will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and
ready to cry too.

"Yes, gaw--" Just as she was at this very "gaw" Tug roars out, "La, Pa!
here's Mr. Bar, uncle Tug's coachman!"

It was Mr. Bar. When she saw him, Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back
into the parlor with my ladies. "What is it, Mr. Bar?" says I; and as
quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair,
and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather. Mr. Bar made
some resistance.--"Don't think of it, Mr. Cox," says he; "don't trouble
yourself, sir." But I lathered away and never minded. "And what's this
melancholy event, sir," says I, "that has spread desolation in your
family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir--I can feel for your
loss."

I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because
Tuggeridge was my uncle--no, as such I disown him.

Mr. Bar was just about to speak. "Yes, sir," says he, "my master's
gaw--" when at the "gaw" in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!--the finest
gentleman I ever saw.

"What, YOU here, Mr. Bar!" says he.

"Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir?"

"A mighty wet day, sir," says I to Mr. Hock--stepping up and making my
bow. "A sad circumstance too, sir! And is it a turn of the tongs that
you want to-day, sir? Ho, there, Mr. Crump!"

"Turn, Mr. Crump, if you please, sir," said Mr. Hock, making a bow:
"but from you, sir,