"Tom, bring me a small plate of boiled beef and potatoes," cries one of his regulars. Placing his hand upon the table-cloth; and knocking off the crumbs with his napkin, he bends to the gentleman, and in a small.

confidential voice informs him,

"The beef won't do for you, Sir,--it's too low, it's bin in cut a hour.

Fine ribs o' lamb, jist up."

"That will do, Tom," says the gratified customer.

"Gra.s.s or spinach, Sir? fine 'gra.s.s,'--first this season."

"Bring it, and quick, Tom," replies the gentleman, pleased with the a.s.siduous care he takes in not permitting him to have an indifferent cut of a half cold joint.

The most extraordinary part of the business is, the ready manner in which he 'casts up' all you have eaten, takes the reckoning, and then is off again in a twinkling.

A stranger, and one unaccustomed to feed in public, is recognised in a moment by his uneasy movements. He generally slinks into the nearest vacant seat, and is evidently taken aback by the apparently abrupt and rapid annunciation of the voluble and active waiter, and, in the hurry and confusion, very frequently decides upon the dish least pleasant to his palate.

A respectable gentleman of the old school, of a mild and reverend appearance, and a lean and hungry figure, once dropped into a settle where we were discussing a rump steak and a shallot, tender as an infant, and fragrant as a flower garden! Tom pounced upon him in a moment, and uttered the mystic roll. The worthy senior was evidently confused and startled, but necessity so far overcame his diffidence that he softly said,

"A small portion of veal and ham, well done."

Tom, whirled round, continuing the application of his eternal napkin to a tumbler which he was polishing, bawled out in a stentorian voice,

"Plate o' weal, an' dam well done!"

We shall never sponge from the slate of our memory the utter astonishment expressed in the bland countenance of the startled old gentleman at this peculiar echo of his wishes.

SCENE X.(b)

"This is a werry lonely spot, Sir; I wonder you ar'n't afeard of being robbed."

Job Timmins was a tailor bold, And well he knew his trade, And though he was no fighting man Had often dress'd a blade!

Quoth he, one day--"I have not had A holiday for years, So I'm resolv'd to go and fish, And cut for once the shears."

So donning quick his Sunday's suit, He took both rod and line, And bait for fish--and prog for one, And eke a flask of wine.

For he was one who loved to live, And said--"Where'er I roam I like to feed--and though abroad, To make myself at home."

Beneath a shady grove of trees He sat him down to fish, And having got a cover, he Long'd much to get a dish.

He cast his line, and watch'd his float, Slow gliding down the tide; He saw it sink! he drew it up, And lo! a fish he spied.

He took the struggling gudgeon off, And cried--"I likes his looks, I wish he'd live--but fishes die Soon as they're--off the hooks!"

At last a dozen more he drew-- (Fine-drawing 'twas to him!) But day past by--and twilight came, All objects soon grew dim.

"One more!" he cried, "and then I'll pack, And homeward trot to sup,"-- But as he spoke, he heard a tread, Which caused him to look up.

Poor Timmins trembled as he gazed Upon the stranger's face; For cut purse! robber! all too plain, His eye could therein trace.

"Them's werry handsome boots o' yourn,"

The ruffian smiling cried, "Jist draw your trotters out--my pal-- And we'll swop tiles, besides."

"That coat too, is a pretty fit-- Don't tremble so--for I Von't rob you of a single fish, I've other fish to fry."

Poor Timmins was obliged to yield Hat, coat, and boots--in short He was completely stripp'd--and paid Most dearly for his "sport."

And as he homeward went, he sigh'd-- "Farewell to stream and brook; O! yes, they'll catch me there again A fishing--with a hook!"

GONE!

Along the banks, at early dawn, Trudged n.o.bbs and n.o.bbs's son, With rod and line, resolved that day Great fishes should be won.

At last they came unto a bridge, Cried n.o.bbs, "Oh! this is fine!"

And feeling sure 'twould answer well, He dropp'd the stream a line.

"We cannot find a fitter place, If twenty miles we march; Its very look has fix'd my choice, So knowing and--so arch!"

He baited and he cast his line, When soon, to his delight, He saw his float bob up and down, And lo! he had a bite!

"A gudgeon, Tom, I think it is!"

Cried n.o.bbs, "Here, take the prize; It weighs a pound--in its own scales, I'm quite sure by its size."

He cast again his baited hook, And drew another up!

And cried, "We are in luck to-day, How glorious we shall sup!"

All in the basket Tommy stow'd The piscatory spoil; Says n.o.bbs, "We've netted two at least, Albeit we've no toil."

Amazed at his own luck, he threw The tempting bait again, And presently a nibble had-- A bite! he pull'd amain!

His rod beneath the fish's weight Now bent just like a bow, "What's this?" cried n.o.bbs; his son replied, "A salmon, 'tis, I know."

And sure enough a monstrous perch, Of six or seven pounds, He from the water drew, whose bulk Both dad and son confounds.

"O! Gemini!" he said, when he "O! Pisces!" should have cried; And tremblingly the wriggling fish Haul'd to the bridge's side.

When, lo! just as he stretched his hand To grasp the perch's fin, The slender line was snapp'd in twain, The perch went tumbling in!

"Gone! gone! by gosh!" scream'd n.o.bbs, while Tom Too eager forward bent, And, with a kick, their basket quick Into the river sent.