"
"That's what?" cries my wife.
"What, gone?" cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls
will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and
ready to cry too.
"Yes, gaw--" Just as she was at this very "gaw" Tug roars out, "La, Pa!
here's Mr. Bar, uncle Tug's coachman!"
It was Mr. Bar. When she saw him, Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back
into the parlor with my ladies. "What is it, Mr. Bar?" says I; and as
quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair,
and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather. Mr. Bar made
some resistance.--"Don't think of it, Mr. Cox," says he; "don't trouble
yourself, sir." But I lathered away and never minded. "And what's this
melancholy event, sir," says I, "that has spread desolation in your
family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir--I can feel for your
loss."
I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because
Tuggeridge was my uncle--no, as such I disown him.
Mr. Bar was just about to speak. "Yes, sir," says he, "my master's
gaw--" when at the "gaw" in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!--the finest
gentleman I ever saw.
"What, YOU here, Mr. Bar!" says he.
"Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir?"
"A mighty wet day, sir," says I to Mr.
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