Friday, Sept. 11.—And now, if I am not mistaken, I come to relate the conclusion of Mr. Crutchley's most extraordinary summer career at Streatham, which place, I believe, he has now left without much intention to frequently revisit. However, this is mere conjecture; but he really had a run of ill-luck not very inviting to a man of his cold and splenetic turn to play the same game.
When we were just going to supper, we heard a disturbance among the dogs; and Mrs. and Miss Thrale went out to see what was the matter, while Dr. Johnson and I remained quiet. Soon returning.
“A friend! a friend!” she cried, and was followed by Mr. Crutchley. He would not eat with us, but was chatty and in good-humour, and as usual, when in spirits, saucily sarcastic. For instance, it is generally half my employment in hot evenings here to rescue some or other poor buzzing idiot of an insect from the flame of a candle. This, accordingly, I was performing with a Harry Longlegs, which, after much trial to catch, eluded me, and escaped, nobody could see how. Mr. Crutchley vowed I had caught and squeezed him to death in my hand.
“No, indeed,” cried I, “when I catch them, I put them out of the window.”
“Ay, their bodies,” said he, laughing; “but their legs, I suppose, you keep.”
“Not I, indeed; I hold them very safe in the palm of my hand.”
“Oh!” said he, “the palm of your hand! why, it would not hold a fly! But what have you done with the poor wretch! thrown him under the table slily?”
“What good would that do?”
“Oh, help to establish your full character for mercy.”
Now was not that a speech to provoke Miss Grizzle herself? However, I only made up a saucy lip.