Why need I care about telling these ladies where I live?”
“Sir,” says I, “have the goodness to send the parcel, when done, to Mr. Titmarsh, No. 3 Bell Lane, Salisbury Square, near St. Bride’s Church, Fleet Street. Ring, if you please, the two-pair bell.”
“What, sir?” said Mr. Polonius.
“Hwat!” shrieked the old lady. “Mr. Hwat? Mais, ma chère, c’est impayable. Come along—here’s the carr’age! Give me your arm, Mr. Hwat, and get inside, and tell me all about your thirteen aunts.”
She seized on my elbow and hobbled through the shop as fast as possible; the young ladies following her, laughing.
“Now, jump in, do you hear?” said she, poking her sharp nose out of the window.
“I can’t, ma’am,” says I; “I have a friend.”
“Pooh, pooh! send ’um to the juice, and jump in!” And before almost I could say a word, a great powdered fellow in yellow-plush breeches pushed me up the steps and banged the door to.
I looked just for one minute as the barouche drove away at Hoskins, and never shall forget his figure. There stood Gus, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring, a smoking cheroot in his hand, wondering with all his might at the strange thing that had just happened to me.
“Who is that Titmarsh?” says Gus: “there’s a coronet on the carriage, by Jingo!”