tings towards me poor unfortunate widow: if
that's the case, you are a base wicked man; and you deserve--'

'Why, woman, how now? Has a tarantula bit you; or what is it? Speak.'

'Speak! Aye, I'll speak; and all the world shall hear me. First of all
come you riding into my bar like a crazy man: and I, good easy creature,
let myself be wheedled, carry you meat--drink--everything--with my own
hands; sit by your side; keep you in talk the whole evening, for fear
you should be tired; and, what was my reward? "March," says you, "old
witch." Well, that passed on. At midnight I am called out of my bed--for
your sake: and the end of that job is, that along of you the Sow is half
burned down. But for all that, I say never an ill word to you. I open
the late Mr. Sweetbread's clothes-presses to you: his poor innocent
wedding-shirt you don over your great shameless body; go off; leave me
behind with a masterful dog, that takes a roast leg of mutton from off
the spit; and, when he should have been beat for it, runs off with it
into the street. You come back with the beast. Not to offend you, I say
never a word of what he has done. Off you go again: well: scarce is your
back turned, when the filthy carrion begins running my rabbits up and
down the yard; eats up all that he can catch; and never a one would have
been left to tell the tale, if the great giantical hostler (him as
blacked your shoes) hadn't ha' cudgelled him off. And after all this,
there are you hopping away at the ball wi' some painted doll--looking
babies in her eyes--quite forgetting me that has to sit up for you at
home pining and grieving: and all isn't enough, but at last you must
trot off to another inn.'

'What then,' said Mr. Schnackenberger, 'is it fact that I'm not at the
Golden Sow?'

'Charming!' said Mrs. Sweetbread; 'and so you would make believe you
don't know it; but I shall match you, or find them as will: rest you
sure of _that_.'

'Children!' said Mr. Schnackenberger to the waiter and boots, who were
listening in astonishment with the door half-open; 'of all loves, rid me
of this monster.'

'Aye, what!' said she in a voice of wrath; and put herself on the
defensive. But a word or two of abuse against the landlord of the
Double-barrelled Gun, which escaped her in her heat, irritated the men
to that degree, that in a few moments afterwards Mrs. Sweetbread was
venting her wrath in the street--to the wonder of all passers-by, who
looked after her un