of nonsense in his ears. He might have wandered on till now, but
in a little room there was a young lady who had taken off her mask, on
account of the place being very warm, and was sitting there alone.'

'And that was she?' said his daughter hastily.

'And that was she,' replied the locksmith; 'and I no sooner whispered to
her what the matter was--as softly, Doll, and with nearly as much art as
you could have used yourself--than she gives a kind of scream and faints
away.'

'What did you do--what happened next?' asked his daughter. 'Why, the
masks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and I
thought myself in luck to get clear off, that's all,' rejoined the
locksmith. 'What happened when I reached home you may guess, if you
didn't hear it. Ah! Well, it's a poor heart that never rejoices.--Put
Toby this way, my dear.'

This Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been made.
Applying his lips to the worthy old gentleman's benevolent forehead, the
locksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among the eatables, kept
them there so long, at the same time raising the vessel slowly in
the air, that at length Toby stood on his head upon his nose, when he
smacked his lips, and set him on the table again with fond reluctance.

Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no part
of it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such silent
manifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible with the
favourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which now ensued, as
a particularly advantageous opportunity for doing great execution with
them upon the locksmith's daughter (who he had no doubt was looking
at him in mute admiration), he began to screw and twist his face,
and especially those features, into such extraordinary, hideous, and
unparalleled contortions, that Gabriel, who happened to look towards
him, was stricken with amazement.

'Why, what the devil's the matter with the lad?' cried the locksmith.
'Is he choking?'

'Who?' demanded Sim, with some disdain.

'Who? Why, you,' returned his master. 'What do you mean by making those
horrible faces over your breakfast?'

'Faces are matters of taste, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, rather
discomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith's daughter
smiling.

'Sim,' rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. 'Don't be a fool, for I'd
rather see you in your senses. These young fellows,' he added, turning