arried a very nice woman, and tries to keep friends with the most
respectable people about. Indeed, his behaviour to a rich and rascally
tallow-monger, who has been trespassing on the land of some poor
neighbours, and stealing their turkey, has sent up UNLIMITED LOO, as
he's called, in the estimation of all decent folks. Anyhow, he has got
the house which was the 'King's Head,' and, while he gives Imperial
measures, will keep it.

"But as the BEERBUNGS are irrevocably kicked out of the house, they
comfort themselves by squabbling with one another, and talking as if the
question was which had a right to the fixtures. SMITH, the bankrupt, is
dead, but has left a lot of sons, not bad fellows, but with very little
brains among them. And there is a cousin of their's, who at present
calls himself SHAMBORE (but I am told is a real bore to any one who has
to spend the evening with him), and he comes from the elder branch of
the BEERBUNGS, and claims to be the head of the family. SHAMBORE and
SMITH'S boys have hitherto been at daggers drawn, and making everybody
laugh at their absurd quarrels. SHAMBORE has settled just outside the
parish, and is always sticking up placards, some of them very profane,
abusing LOO, or anybody who happened for the time to have the 'King's
Head.' He lives at a place called Frowsy Wharf, and behaves as stuck-up
as if the parish belonged to him; sees people with his hat on; and has
got a long story about some miraculous hair oil which he says will never
dry off his head. Some think he is cracked. The SMITH boys used to make
all sorts of game of him, and call him 'FATTY,' and, when their father
had the house, they used to stone any one who went to see him.

"But somehow, SHAMBORE and the SMITHS have made it up. Why, nobody
knows; but it is thought that the tallow-monger has been at them, and
has promised to stand something handsome if they will unite to bring
actions of trespass against LOO. However, be this as it may last week
down comes one of SMITH'S sons--who calls himself (for they have all
_aliases_) KNEE MOORE--to Frowsy Wharf, in his best clothes, and all
being arranged, knocks three knocks--no more nor less--at SHAMBORE'S
front door. He would not knock two knocks, for fear of being thought a
postman; and SHAMBORE would not let him knock four, because that would
be coming the swell too much. SHAMBORE was peeping over the blind (which
had crochet lilies on it), but of course MOORE pretended not