Hock, the valet;
Mr. Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly
enough. I used to powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in
my life saw old Tuggeridge, except once: when he said "Oh, the barber!"
tossed up his nose, and passed on.
One day--one famous day last January--all our Market was thrown into
a high state of excitement by the appearance of no less than three
vehicles at our establishment. As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and
Orlando, were sitting in the back-parlor over our dinner (it being
Christmas-time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port,
and was longing that there should be a mistletoe-bough: at which
proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):--we
had just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows
out, "La, Pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!"
And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough--Mrs. Breadbasket in deep
mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back
shop. My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the
world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was
very kind of her to come. "La, mem," says Mrs. B., "I'm sure I'd
do anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear
Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that's gone.
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