came in early this morning,' cried the girl, who was still leaning
over the railing of the gallery, 'with a gentleman in a hackney-coach,
and it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's all
about it.'

'Vy didn't you say so before,' said Sam, with great indignation,
singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. 'For all I
know'd he was one o' the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady
too! If he's anything of a gen'l'm'n, he's vurth a shillin' a day, let
alone the arrands.' Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel
brushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots
and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the
amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had
arrived at the door of number five.

'Come in,' said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door. Sam
made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman
seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman's boots
right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers,
he backed towards the door.

'Boots,' said the gentleman.

'Sir,' said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of
the lock. 'Do you know--what's a-name--Doctors' Commons?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Where is it?'

'Paul's Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller's
at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as
touts for licences.'

'Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.

'Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons--touches
their hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence?" Queer sort, them,
and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.'

'What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.

'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts things
into old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos
a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,
to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down
he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very
smart--top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed
tile--green shawl--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the archvay,
thinking how he should inwest the money--up comes the touter,
touches his hat--"Licence, Sir, licence?"--"What's that?" says
my father.--"Licence, Sir," says he.--"What licence?"