“A lunatic, my lord (what lies men tell!), and dangerous!”
“Good day! [Exit my lord]. This way.” We followed our uncle—the end of a blind alley gave us a resting-place.
“Bravo!” exclaimed our uncle Bucket, “this is rare! I live here—dine with me!”
A mob surrounded us—we acquiesced, in hopes to reach a place of shelter.
“All right!” exclaimed he of the maternal side, “stand three-halfpence for your feed.”
We shelled the necessary out—he dived into a baker’s shop—the mob increased—he hailed us from the door.
“Thank God, this is your house, then.”
“Only my kitchen. Lend a hand!”
A dish of steaming baked potatoes, surmounted by a fractional rib of consumptive beef, was deposited between the lemon-coloured receptacles of our thumbs and fingers—an outcry was raised at the court’s end—we were almost mad.
“Turn to the right—three-pair back—cut away while it’s warm, and make yourself at home! I’ll come with the beer!”