ranged for three
voices, by Mr. F. S.) by Miss Euphemia, Miss Corinna, and Mr. Frederick
Snodgrass. The "interstices," as Mr. Bagshaw called them, to be filled
up by the amusing talents of the elder Wrench and Uncle John's friend.
And, lastly, that the company do assemble at Mr. Bagshaw's on the
morning of the 24th of August, at ten o'clock _precisely_, in order to
have the advantage of the tide both ways.

Three days prior to the important 24th, Mr. Bagshaw went to engage the
boat, but, in a squabble with the boatman, Mr. B. got a black eye. This
was the first mishap.

Restless and impatient though you be, depend upon it, there is not a
day of the whole three hundred and sixty-five will put itself, in the
slightest degree, out of the way, or appear one second before its
appointed time, for your gratification. O that people would consider
this, and await events with patience! Certainly Mr. Bagshaw did not. The
night of the 23d to him appeared an age. His repeater was in his hand
every ten minutes. He thought the morning would never dawn,--but he was
mistaken; it did; and as fine a morning as if it had been made on
purpose to favor his excursion. By six o'clock he was dressed!--by eight
the contributions from all the members had arrived, and were ranged in
the passage. There was their own pigeon-pie, carefully packed in brown
paper and straw; Sir Thomas's hamper of his own choice wine; and the
rest. Everything promised fairly. The young ladies and Mr. Frederick had
had thirty rehearsals of their grand arias and concertos, and were
perfect to a demi-semiquaver; Jack Richards would _certainly_ come; and
the only drawback upon Mr. Bagshaw's personal enjoyment--but nothing in
this world is perfect--was the necessity he was under of wearing his
green shade, which would totally deprive him of the pleasure of
contemplating the beauties of the Thames scenery,--a thing he had set
his heart upon. Nine! ten!

"No one here yet! Jane, my love, we shall infallibly lose the tide." And
for the next quarter of an hour the place of the poor repeater was no
sinecure.

A knock! Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and Mr. Frederick. Another! The whole
family of the Groutses. Next came Mr. Charles Wrench.

"Bless us! Mr. Charles," said Bagshaw, "where is your father?"

Now, Mr. Wrench, senior, was an agreeable old dentist, always gay,
generally humorous, sometimes witty; he could _sketch_ characters as
well as _draw_ teeth; and, on occasions of thi