ter in the rheumatics could
not be entirely neglected. And it was not only ins in the family that
had told on the resources of one unaided Waitering; outs were not
wanting. A brother out of a situation, and another brother out of money
to meet an acceptance, and another brother out of his mind, and another
brother out at New York (not the same, though it might appear so), had
really and truly brought me to a stand till I could turn myself round. I
got worse and worse in my meditations, constantly reflecting "The
Proofs," and reflecting that when Christmas drew nearer, and the Proofs
were published, there could be no safety from hour to hour but that He
might confront me in the Coffee-room, and in the face of day and his
country demand his rights.

The impressive and unlooked-for catastrophe towards which I dimly pointed
the reader (shall I add, the highly intellectual reader?) in my first
remarks now rapidly approaches.

It was November still, but the last echoes of the Guy Foxes had long
ceased to reverberate. We was slack,--several joints under our average
mark, and wine, of course, proportionate. So slack had we become at
last, that Beds Nos. 26, 27, 28, and 31, having took their six o'clock
dinners, and dozed over their respective pints, had drove away in their
respective Hansoms for their respective Night Mail-trains and left us
empty.

I had took the evening paper to No. 6 table,--which is warm and most to
be preferred,--and, lost in the all-absorbing topics of the day, had
dropped into a slumber. I was recalled to consciousness by the
well-known intimation, "Waiter!" and replying, "Sir!" found a gentleman
standing at No. 4 table. The reader (shall I add, the observant reader?)
will please to notice the locality of the gentleman,--_at No. 4 table_.

He had one of the newfangled uncollapsable bags in his hand (which I am
against, for I don't see why you shouldn't collapse, while you are about
it, as your fathers collapsed before you), and he said:

"I want to dine, waiter. I shall sleep here to-night."

"Very good, sir. What will you take for dinner, sir?"

"Soup, bit of codfish, oyster sauce, and the joint."

"Thank you, sir."

I rang the chambermaid's bell; and Mrs. Pratchett marched in, according
to custom, demurely carrying a lighted flat candle before her, as if she
was one of a long public procession, all the other members of which was
invisible.

In the meanwhile the gentleman had gone u