place. As the name implies, it chopped off the
wool, and did not cut the pelt up into shreds,
as the American machine does, but left it
perfectly whole.

"And what becomes of the pelt?" I asked.

*Principally used for making size," was the
reply. Then, with a wicked twinkle of the eye,
and in a tone highly confidential, "I have heard
that it does also find its way, in various jelly
forms, to the tables of the wealthy. And why
not, sir? A very clean feeder is the rabbit.
Ah! and it does make a good jelly, too, even
in its rough state; for in the summer months,
when paunch is not always fit to eat, I often
boil down a handful of pelt for our yard dog,
and he seems to like it, and it never disagrees
with him. Why shouldn't they prepare it, and
flavour it, and sent it as a delicacy to May
Fair?"

Having spent nearly three-quarters of an
hour with the pullers and cutters, I found,
upon turning to leave, that I had myself a
good deal of the rabbit about me. The flue
and the dust had given a downy coat to my
back, and I looked as if I was already past the
first stage of a metamorphosis. However, I
could soon be disenchanted with a clothes-
brush.

Before the silk hat came in, an event
celebrated by the "Free and Easy" Lyrist of the
day, who recommended all young men who
wished

                        To cut a shine
To take his advice at once, and buy a four and nine,

rabbit wool was in as great demand as now,
being used with lambs' wool for the bodies of
the beaver hats. Hare skins in those days
were twice as valuable as they now are. The
wool was used to assist in napping. The long,
coarse, red hair was not pulled out, as in the
case of the rabbit, but was shorn down to the
under wool, which has a glossy black surface,
beneath which, again, all is most delicately
silky and white.

A beaver hat in the good old times cost
twenty-seven and sixpence, or a guinea and a
half. But though men paid for hats napped
with beaver wool, they very often got only an
imitation article. The best substitute was
furnished by an animal known in the fur trade as
the neutre. This creature is about the size of
a moderately small dog; perhaps a very big
cat would be nearer the mark. Of an amphibious
turn, the neutre inhabits the banks of
South American rivers, and can swim and dive
with any water rat.

"There is nothing more to be learned on
these premises," remarked my guide, as we
again descended, "but if you would like to see
how the dressing of rabbit skins is managed I
shall be glad to show you." I bowed my
thanks. "Formerly fur cutting and fur dressing
were one business; now they are kept quite
separate. About five minutes' walk from here
is a dresser's, not a large business, but there
you can see just as much as you would at the
biggest place in London.''

After a walk of a quarter of mile or thereabouts,
through back streets and grimy passages, we
paused in front of an old-fashioned house with
a flight of three stone steps, and a cellar gaping
with open mouth beneath what had once been
the front-parlour window. A little wicket gate
with a spring lock yielded to the touch of my
guide, and we were in the shop. Small
bundles of dressed rabbit skins were tumbled
confusedly together behind the counter, and
another batch stood piled more regularly against
the wall. A man who looked as though he had
just been delivering a load of bricks made his
appearance. He was covered with a fine red
dust, and spoke with a strong Celtic accent;
He informed us that the "maisther" was not
in, but was "expected" every minute, whereupon
my guide said we were going below, and
that if the governor came in he was to be told
where he might find us. Stepping carefully
down a dark winding stair I quickly reached
the lower regions. The light that entered from
the cellar-flap was dim. For all that, I could
see that the flooring was of earth and the ceiling
of rough planks and joists. The odour
was that of a hot menagerie. I must confess,
too, that I was startled, when on turning a
corner, I suddenly came upon five savage-
looking creatures perfectly naked, with eyes
that rolled wildly in the uncertain light, and
whose features were disfigured with red stains.
They swayed their bodies from side to side as
in some mystic dance, muttering meanwhile in
a language quite unknown to me, what seemed'
to be an incantation. I fell back, but my
conductor reminded me of his presence by
whispering in my ear, "Tubbers, sir!"
Reassured I took a second glance, and true enough
each man was dancing up to his middle in a
tub. A piece of canvas nailed to the staves
was secured by a string to the performer's
waist. This to prevent the escape of his steam.

"Gave you a start, didn't it?"

"It did, indeed."

"Irishmen to a man," he continued; "and
precious hard-working fellows they are. They
begin that fun at eight o'clock in the morning,
and very often are not out of their tubs again
except for meals till eight at night. Frequently
they take their tea in the tub rather than put
themselves to the trouble of dressing."

"Warm work, seemingly," I remarked.

My eyes having adapted themselves to the
light, I could see the perspiration coursing
down the skin of the man nearest me, fretting
little channels through the colouring matter
with which he was coated.

"Whatever are they about?"

"Tubbing rabbit skins, making the pelt into
leather."

"They look like painted savages."

"Yes, that's the mahogany dust. The skins
are taken in their raw state, as you saw the
pullers get them. The feet are cut off. To make
them a bit soft, they are rubbed through the
piece of rope nailed in a loop against yonder
beam. After that they are well buttered, not
with Dorset at eighteenpence a pound, the
commonest tub scrapings will do as well. They