ule, though, I certainly had not the worst of the joke, and may,
therefore, with better grace tell the story, which, happily for my
readers, is a very brief one. A custom prevailed in Mrs. Clanfrizzle's
household, which from my unhappy ignorance of boarding-houses, I am
unable to predicate if it belong to the genera at large, or this one
specimen in particular, however, it is a sufficiently curious fact, even
though thereby hang no tale, for my stating it here. The decanters on
the dinner-table were never labelled, with their more appropriate
designation of contents, whether claret, sherry, or port, but with the
names of their respective owners, it being a matter of much less
consequence that any individual at table should mix his wine, by pouring
"port upon madeira," than commit the truly legal offence of appropriating
to his own use and benefit, even by mistake, his neighbour's bottle.
However well the system may work among the regular members of the
"domestic circle," and I am assured that it does succeed extremely
--to the newly arrived guest, or uninitiated visitor, the affair is
perplexing, and leads occasionally to awkward results.

It so chanced, from my friend O'Flaherty's habitual position at the foot
of the table, and my post of honour near the head, that on the first day
of my appearing there, the distance between us, not only precluded all
possible intercourse, but any of those gentle hints as to habits and
customs, a new arrival looks for at the hands of his better informed
friend. The only mode of recognition, to prove that we belonged to each
other, being by that excellent and truly English custom of drinking wine
together, Tom seized the first idle moment from his avocation as carver
to say,

"Lorrequer, a glass of wine with you."

Having, of course, acceded, he again asked,

"What wine do you drink?" intending thereby, as I afterwards learned, to
send me from his end of the table, what wine I selected. Not conceiving
the object of the inquiry, and having hitherto without hesitation helped
myself from the decanter, which bore some faint resemblance to sherry,
I immediately turned for correct information to the bottle itself, upon
whose slender neck was ticketed the usual slip of paper. My endeavours
to decypher the writing occupied time sufficient again to make O'Flaherty
ask,

"Well, Harry, I'm waiting for you. Will you have port?"

"No, I thank you," I replied, having by this revealed the