“Well, you are a nice young ’ooman for a musical party, you are,” said the boot-cleaner. “Look at these here boots⁠—eleven pair o’ boots; and one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put all the others out? No, no; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin’, Sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.”

Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.

There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.

“Sam,” cried the landlady, “where’s that lazy, idle⁠—why, Sam⁠—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?”

“Vouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, till you’d done talking,” replied Sam gruffly.