The fine seemed so very moderate, that we were glad to compromise.
“Everything around you,—books, plate, pictures,—ay, my old-fashioned housekeeper into the bargain,—are the selection of Uncle Tim.”
“And by this beeswing, Mr. Bosky, we guess Uncle Timothy is butler too.”
“Most profoundly opined! Yonder,” pointing to an antique painted glass door, “is his cabinet—
'There Caxton sleeps, with Wynkyn at his side,
One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide.'
“An odd thought strikes me. What say you to a dish of conjurors, with a garnish of monsters and mountebanks, served up by mine host of St. Bartlemy, Uncle Tim?” And Mr. Bosky disappeared through the glass door, but returned in an instant, bearing in his hand a smartly-bound volume. “Shall I unclasp the Merry Mysteries of Bartlemy Fair? You may go farther and fare worse.”
“We want no whetters or provocatives, Mr. Bosky.”
“Well, seeing that, like Justice Greedy, you long to give thanks and fall to, my musical grace shall not be a tedious one.
Our host, Uncle Tim, does the banquet prepare,