\" He leaned at a steeper pitch. “Very well,” he said. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. He was a fool. One side of the face was white with foamy lather and the other ruddy-cheeked and blue-jawed. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. .
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