my, without irony, his name being
really Thomas. He, a resident in Chiswick, would see that Aunt Elizabeth
Jane got the consignment safely.

Michael's father did this in furtherance of a subtle scheme which
succeeded. His son immediately said:--"Just you give _him_ 'em, and see
if he don't sneak 'em. See if he don't bile the peas and make a blooming
pudd'n of the cherries. You see if he don't! That's all I say, if you
arsk me." A few interchanges on these lines ended in Michael undertaking
to deliver the goods personally as a favour, time enough Sunday morning
for Aunt Elizabeth Jane herself to make a pudding of the cherries,
blooming or otherwise.

As a sequel, Michael arrived at his aunt's so early on the following
Sunday that the peas and the cherries had to wait for hours to be
cooked, while Aunt Elizabeth Jane talked with matrons round in the
alley, and he himself took part in a short fishing expedition, nearly
catching a roach, who got away. The Humanitarian--is that quite the
correct word, by-the-by?--must rejoice at the frequency of this result
in angling.

"The 'ook giv'," said Michael, returning disappointed. "Wot can you
expect with inferior tarkle?" He then undertook to get a brown Toby jug
filled at The Pigeons; though, being church-time--the time at which the
Heathen avail themselves of their opportunity of stopping away from
church--the purchase of one pint full up, and no cheating, was a
statutable offence on the part of the seller.

But when a public has a little back-garden with rusticated woodwork
seats, painful to those rash enough to avail themselves of them, and a
negotiable wall you and your jug can climb over and descend from by the
table no one ever gets his legs under owing to this same rusticity of
structure, then you can do as Michael did, and make your presence felt
by whistling through the keyhole, without fear of incriminating the
Egeria of the beer-fountain in the locked and shuttered bar, near at
hand.

Egeria was not far off, for her voice came saying:--"Say your name
through the keyhole; the key's took out.... No, you ain't Mrs. Treadwell
next door! You're a boy."

"Ain't a party-next-door's grandnephew a boy?" exclaimed Michael
indignantly. "She's sent me with her own jug for a pint of arfnarf!
Here's the coppers, all square. You won't have nothing to complain of,
Miss 'Orkins."

Miss Hawkins, the daughter of The Pigeons, or at least of their
proprietor, opened the door and