instant Porkinson entered in great excitement,
with his face flushed, an ugly mark about his
eye, his hat smashed, and his coat torn.

"Why, bless me, Porkinson, what's
happened?"

"Happened!" said Porkinson; " look at that
and look at this."

"That," referred to a small photograph;
" this," to Porkinson.

"Do you call that a likeness?" said Porkinson,
with indignation.

"Well, it is certainly not a very pleasing
one."

"I should think not," said Porkinson; ''and
because I declined to pay for it, and insisted
upon having another done, the ruffian
photographer hit me a blow in the eye; his wife,
a perfect fury, seized me by the hair of the
head; and their miscreant of a son hung on to my
coat-tails and kicked my shins; and all this in a
public thoroughfare, in broad day, in the
nineteenth century; and the police declined to take
them in charge."

"This is what I call shameful — disgraceful.
I couldn't have believed such a thing possible —
in a free country."

These words broke in upon us from the hall,
while Porkinson was still giving vent to his
indignation, and the next instant Perkins entered
with a brown-paper parcel.

"They won't change it, and I can get no
redress. It's a regular den of cheats and
thieves. I was hustled out of the place, and
when I applied to the magistrate, he told me I
must sue them in the County Court. Look
at the thing," continued Perkins; " I find
now that it hasn't got a pendulum. And
what do you think? I am told the auction
is a mock one, a sham and a snare; and yet
in this free country there is no law to put it
down!"

'Oh, please, sir; please, sir!"

"What's the matter now?" I asked of the
breathless servitor, who arrived on the distressing
scene with these words of foreboding.

"The police, sir, with somebody in custody."

"The police! Somebody in custody! Do
they take this for a station-house?"

I rush to the door, and find two policemen on
the step holding up a stout gentleman (with
difficulty) between them. The light from the
hall-lamp showed me the swollen face of
Bovington.

"Why, what has happened! Is he dr— ?"

"No, sir; not that. The gent's had the
misfortune to be garotted."

"Garotted!"

"Yes, sir. Found him lying on the pavement
near the British Museum. He's been robbed,
sir, and rather ill treated."

When Bovington was brought in and placed
in an arm-chair opposite Puddington, the sight
of him with his swollen face and protruding
eyes, as if they had nearly been squeezed out
of him, was so pitiful, that Porkinson and
Perkins were fain to subside into silence.

I regret to say that when the sirloin came up,
the daily one of the party who had any appetite
for old English fare was Perkins. Bovington,
Porkinson, and Puddington, begged to be
excused from drawing up to the table, and sat by
the fire with basins on their knees, and partook
of soup. It would have been a very
melancholy party indeed, especially after the
hilarity of the night before, had not my
entertaining neighbour, Monsieur Petitpoint, the
music-master, stepped in to cheer us with his
lively talk.

"Ah ! what you say?" exclaimed M. Petitpoint;
"all your friends hockust, garotted,
sheated, boxed, ponched on ze head — all in
a day, and in ze broad daylight! Ah,
parbleu, zat is very bad!"

"It is bad," I said; " but my friend Mr.
Bovington's case is the worst. He had been
into the British Museum to see the original
document of Magna Charta— "

"Magna Charta!" exclaimed M. Petitpoint;
" ah ze grand sharter of English leeberty! We
have up such sing as zat in France — zere is no
such sing as zat in ze whole world — only in ze
Grand Bretagne!"

"Yes, exactly, M. Petitpoint; but Mr.
Bovington had scarcely got outside the Museum—
at four o'clock in the afternoon — when a ruffian
seized him by the throat, while another rifled his
pockets, and then threw him with violence on
the pavement."

"Ah, parbleu!" exclaimed M. Petitpoint, " but
we have not zat in France, in ze broad day. But
nevaire you mind, Monsieur Bovington,"
continued the lively Petitpoint, patting my guest
upon the back; " you have a great nassion!
you have leeberty! you have juistees! And, look
you, I shall play you my last composission wid
all ze beautiful arias of your grand nassion."
With that, M. Petitpoint lighted a cigarette,
sat down to the piano, and, with exquisite good
nature and lightness of heart, played a grand
fantasia, embracing God save the Queen, Rule
Britannia, the Red White and Blue, and I don't
know how many national and patriotic airs
besides.

The effect of this music — but especially of
Rule Britannia  — on my swindled and half-
murdered guests, was highly stimulating; indeed,
they began within half an hour to patronise,
protect, and pity M. Petitpoint, and to offer to
accompany him to the British Museum to inspect
Magna Charta, and take his chance of being
garotted at the gate. But for myself I must confess,
that, although my waistcoat expanded under the
influence of Rule Britannia, as it invariably
does, still I caught myself unpatriotically wishing
that Britannia would rule her scoundrels a
little better. I admit that it is charming, logical,
and unanswerable, to sing Rule Britannia on all
occasions for the demolition of all grumblers,
and moral extinction of all foreigners; but if,
as to her ruffian population, Britannia would
try her shield a little less, and her trident
(getting it ground for the purpose) a little more,
would she rule us much the worse? As one
who decidedly never never never will — if he