t an accident. Mr Quince's party of
pleasure was spoiled, but the others did not think it necessary that
theirs should be also. A "really very sorry for poor Western," and a
half-dozen "poor fellows!" intermingled with tittering, was all that his
misfortunes called forth after his departure; and then they set to like
French falconers. The soup was swallowed, the fish disappeared, joints
were cut up, pies delivered up their hidden treasures, fowls were
dismembered like rotten boroughs, corks were drawn, others flew without
the trouble, and they did eat and were filled. Mr Winterbottom kept
his eye upon the salad, his favourite condiment, mixed it himself,
offered it to all, and was glad to find that no one would spare time to
eat it; but Mr Winterbottom could eat for everybody, and he did eat.
The fragments were cleared away, and handed over to us. We were very
busy, doing as ample justice to them as the party had done before us,
when Mr Winterbottom was observed to turn very pale, and appeared very
uneasy.

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr Tinfoil.

"I'm--I'm not very well--I--I'm afraid something has disagreed with me.
I'm very ill," exclaimed Mr Winterbottom, turning as white as a sheet,
and screwing up his mouth.

"It must be the salad," said one of the ladies; "no one has eaten it but
yourself, and we are all well."

"I--rather think--it must be--oh--I do recollect that I thought the oil
had a queer taste."

"Why there was no oil in the castors," replied Tinfoil. "I desired
Jenkins to get some."

"So did I, particularly," replied Winterbottom. "Oh!--oh, dear--oh,
dear!"

"Jenkins," cried Tinfoil, "where did you get the oil for the castors?
What oil did you get?--are you sure it was right?"

"Yes, sir, quite sure," replied Jenkins. "I brought it here in a
bottle, and put it into the castors before dinner."

"Where did you buy it?"

"At the chemist's, sir. Here's the bottle;" and Jenkins produced a
bottle with _castor_ oil in large letters labelled on the side.

The murder was out. Mr Winterbottom groaned, rose from his seat, for
he felt very sick indeed. The misfortunes of individuals generally add
to the general quota of mirth, and Mr Winterbottom's misfortune had the
same effect as that of Mr Quince. But where was poor Mr Quince all
this time? He had sent for the iron kettle in which the soup had been
warmed up, and filling it full of Thames water, had immersed the
afflicted parts in the