back in his chair with the unmistakeable ennui
of a man who is bored. The captain's name
is down on forty lines; and he has since
resided, I believe, principally on the Continent.
"Preliminary expenses! " begins the Secretary
with a " hem! " " That is to say, surveying
and Engineers, eight thousand six hundred
and twenty pounds, two shillings, and
twopence, (groans, yells, and stamping with
umbrellas, very much muffled by the Turkey
carpet). Solicitors, nine thousand two
hundred pounds, (a burst of groaning, and cries
of ' Shame! ')  Directors' travelling
expenses, three hundred and fifty pounds,"
(immense laughter and groaning, during which
Mr. Balder takes a note with a very business-like
air). There are some more items, and
the Secretary sits down. He leans against
the back of his chair, with a thumb in the
armhole of his waistcoat; and receives a
continuous volley of groans and hisses, upon
the brazen buckler of a sardonic smile.

The Chairman rises, and blandly wishes to
know whether any shareholder has any
observations to make?

Observations! I think they have some
observations to make, indeed. One little fellow
in black, on the bench beside me, springs to
his legs as if he had become the sudden
victim of a corking-pin. It is now time for
the shareholders to assert themselves, he
says. The conduct of the Directors was
fraudulent (Order). Well, if their conduct
was not fraudulent, they had put their
hands into the shareholders' pockets, and
had spent their money! Then as to the
"Directors' travelling expenses." He wants
to know who travelled with them?—a
dark inquiry, which causes immense emotion;
particularly in the breast of an old
share-holder from the country. The little man in
mourning then draws a picture of what he
describes as the "guzzling," which he had reason
to believe prevails on those occasions.—Then
the flashily-dressed young gentleman, (an
eminent member of a debating club in the West
End) makes some smart observations in the
style of the late Mr. Canning. After him, of
course, somebody calls the attention of the
meeting to the " real business before them,"
—namely,—the dividend (Hear! hear! hear!).
It comes out then that there is about " two and
twopence " to divide per share; and a
facetious gentleman proposes to spend the balance
in a white-bait dinner.

How it all is to end, I don't know. But this
I do know, that I have bought a ticket for
the Hooping Cough Asylum dinner; that it
is now nearly five o'clock, and the dinner is
advertised to take place at six, in that very
room. Is this possible? The Mexican
Bondholders are stamping and hooting over
our heads upon the identical floor that is
expected to groan, in one hour, with the
weight of a feast for the worshipful
Company of Cordwainers. Will the infant
Mitt, or the suckling Broggs be elected, in
another room, into the Bereaved Baby's
Asylum, soon enough to allow of the Protestant
Tailors to celebrate their nineteenth anniversary?
I care little. The question whether
I shall dine or not in "Messrs. Bathe and
Breach's best style," as the reporters have
it, is, at this particular juncture, my all in
all. The main ingredient in a good dinner
—punctuality—seems to me wholly impossible.
My feelings overcome me. I can bear the
suspense no longer. I descend the stairs
between a Mexican Bondholder and a
Protestant Tailor.  An aroma of brown gravy;
delicious, genial—and appetising, smites my
senses. I look at the clock, and hope against
hope. As I pass a half-open door, appetite
is further excited by the green gleam of a
hock glass which catches my eye. A snug
little table is laid out for a small party.
Madness! " Your Committee " is arranging
itself at table.

The air will perhaps revive me. I try it;
and with success in purifying myself from
the heat and perspiration of the Gibbleton
meeting; but it cannot allay the acuteness
of my suspense respecting the dinner. This
I can bear no longer. I re-enter. To my
inexpressible relief, the Gibbleton chairman
darts past me like a fox with the whole pack
at his tail. A low murmur comes from the
stairs. The two-and-twopenny men are
descending. It is a quarter past five, and the
room is but this moment cleared.

The secretary has scarcely bound the last
piece of red tape around his papers, when
four men rush to four corners of the Turkey
carpet, and half of it is rolled up, dust and
all; four other men, with the half of a clean
carpet, bowl it along in the wake of the one
displaced. While I am watching the same
performance with the remaining half of the
floor, a battalion of waiters has fitted up, upon
the new half carpet, a row of dining tables;
and covers them with tablecloths. While,
in turn, I watch them, the entire apartment
is tabled and tableclothed. Thirty men are
at this work, upon a system rigidly departmental.
Rinse, Ragget, Thomson and Jiggs
lay the knives; Burrows and three others
cause the glasses to sparkle on the board. I
express my wonder at this magical celerity.
Rinse modestly replies (supposing me to be
a guest who has mistaken the hour) that the
same game is a-going on in four other rooms.

"Does this often happen?"

"Six days out of seven, in the dining
season," says Mr. Rinse. " Last February,
when the banquet was given to Mr.
Macready, we could not accommodate all the
company here, because there were seven
hundred and odd; so we had to take the
Hall of Commerce, down the street. The
merchants and brokers were doing their
business there at four o'clock; and in two
hours we had seats, tables, platforms, dinner,
wine, gas, and company all in."

"By six o'clock?"