s like the proceeding of the denuder of well-sustained
and thriving pigs, he who deprives them of their extreme obesive
selvage--_vulgo_, "_we cut it fat_." Bond-street was cherished by our
smile, and Ranelagh was rendered happy by the exhibition of our symmetry.
Behold us hessianed in our haunts, touching the tips of well-gloved fingers
to our passing friends; then fancy the opening and shutting of our back,
just as Lord Adolphus Nutmeg claimed the affinity of "kid to kid," to find
our other hand close prisoner made by our uncle Bucket.

"How are you, old cock?"

"Who's that, eh?"

"A lunatic, my lord (what lies men tell!), and dangerous!"

"Good day! [_Exit my lord_]. This way." We followed our uncle--the end of a
blind alley gave us a resting-place.

"Bravo!" exclaimed our uncle Bucket, "this is rare! I live here--dine with
me!"

A mob surrounded us--we acquiesced, in hopes to reach a place of shelter.

"All right!" exclaimed he of the maternal side, "stand three-halfpence for
your feed."

We shelled the necessary out--he dived into a baker's shop--the mob
increased--he hailed us from the door.

"Thank God, this is your house, then."

"Only my kitchen. Lend a hand!"

A dish of steaming baked potatoes, surmounted by a fractional rib of
consumptive beef, was deposited between the lemon-coloured receptacles of
our thumbs and fingers--an outcry was raised at the court's end--we were
almost mad.

"Turn to the right--three-pair back--cut away while it's warm, and make
yourself at home! I'll come with the beer!"

We wished our _I_ had been in that bier! We rushed out--the gravy basted
our _pants_, and greased our hessians! Lord Adolphus Nutmeg appeared at the
entrance of the court. As we proceeded to our announced
destination,--"Great God!" exclaimed his lordship, "the Bedlamite has
bitten him!" A peal of laughter rang in our ears--we rushed into the wrong
room, and our uncle Job Bucket picked us, the shattered dish, the reeking
potatoes, and dislodged beef, from the inmost recesses of a wicker-cradle,
where, spite the thumps and entreaties of a distracted parent, we were all
engaged in overlaying a couple of remarkably promising twins! We can say no
more on this frightful subject. But--

"Once again we met!"

Our pride wanted cutting, and fate appeared determined to perform the
operation with a jagged saw!

Tom Racket died! His disease was infectious, and we had been the last
person to call upon him,