( ii8 ) 



WILLIAM WAGGLETON. 



O along with yer, do. Mister Waggleton. I 

 never see sich a man in all my born days, 

 never. Oh, I 'umbly beg pardon, sir," says, all 

 in a breath, the pretty chambermaid belonging to the 

 Furzefield Arms at Chorlbury, as on our entering the 

 coffee-room of that snug hostelry, about half-past nine 

 o'clock, one fine winter's morning, she, in a great state of 

 giggles, cannons against us in the doorway leading thereto, 

 evidently fresh from an interchange of lively badinage 

 with somebody within. 



As we walk into the apartment in question, we behold an 

 elderly gentleman, attired in a dressing-gown and slippers, 

 with nothing else of importance on, warming himself, 

 in a gentlemanly manner, in front of the fire, and par- 

 taking of a cup of coffee and some buttered toast. 



" Hallo ! who are yon ? " is the rather startling question 

 he puts to us, as, wishing him politely good morning, we 

 edge up to the fire. '^ Ah, don't know you," he goes on, 

 after we had informed him, looking us up and down 

 with, as we thought, a somewhat supercilious air. " Think 

 I saw you at the ball last night. Came with the Slow- 

 boys, didn't you ? D — d bad ball as usual it was, too. 

 Been to it every year for the last twenty-five years, so I 

 ought to know something about it, eh ? Old story. Bad 



