drinking Mrs. Bagnet’s health, always given by himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling “the mixtur,” and George’s pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following terms.
“George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day’s march. And you won’t find such another. Here’s towards her!”
The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model composition is limited to the three words “And wishing yours!” which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, “Here’s a man!”
Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man—a quick keen man—and he takes in everybody’s look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man.
“George,” says the man, nodding, “how do you find yourself?”
“Why, it’s Bucket!” cries Mr. George.
“Yes,” says the man, coming in and closing the door. “I was going down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shopwindow—a friend of mine is in want of a secondhand wiolinceller of a good tone—and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I thought I couldn’t be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma’am? And with you, governor? And Lord,” says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, “here’s