s--nay, paler than anything that has ever yet been dragged into
the comparison; for an instant he stood stock-still, then thrust his
hand into his pocket, drew forth the unfortunate substitute, and at the
same time exclaiming D----tion! dashed it violently to the ground. He
next buttoned his coat from the bottom to the top, pulled down his
cuffs, whispered to his no longer admired Jack Richards, "You shall hear
from me, Mr.----," and saying aloud to Bagshaw, "This comes of your
confounded party of pleasure, sir," away he went, and returned to town
outside a Twickenham coach; resolving by the way to call out _that_ Mr.
Richards, and to eject the Bagshaws from the snug corner they held in
his last will and testament.

This explosion seemed to have banished pleasure for that day. They were
all, more or less, out of humor; and instead of making the best of
things, as they had hitherto done, they now made the worst of them. Sir
Thomas's hamper of _his choice wine_ (which, by the by, he purchased at
a cheap shop for the occasion) was opened; and slices of ham were cut
with the only knife and fork. Jack Richards tried to be facetious, but
it would not do. He gave Bagshaw a poke in the ribs, which was received
with a very formal, "Sir, I must beg--" To Mr. Wrench, junior, he
said,--

"You have not spoken much to-day--but you have made amends for your
silence--d' ye take?--Your _ham_ is good, though your _tongue_ is not
worth much!"

Instead of laughing, Mr. Wrench simpered something about impertinent
liberties and satisfaction. On being invited by Sir Thomas to a second
glass of his old East India, he said that one was a dose--had rather not
double the _Cape_; and at the first glass of champagne, he inquired
whether there had been a plentiful supply of gooseberries that year. In
short, whether it were that the company knew not how to appreciate his
style of wit and pleasantry, or that he was in reality a very
disagreeable person, the fact is that--but hold! let us say nothing ill
of him; he died last week, at Folkestone, of a surfeit of goose, in the
forty-ninth year of his age. For the consolation of such as were amused
by him, and regret his loss, be it remembered that there are still to be
found many Jack Richards in this world.

As we have said, they now resolved to make the worst of everything; the
grass was damp, the gnats were troublesome, Carlo's nose was in
everybody's face, Cupid's teeth at everybody's calves, and