Until this moment the Major, whose back had been resting against the funnel, had not attempted to stir a foot, and no sooner was he roused from his reverie by the cry of “Now, then, any one for Westminster?” than, seizing Mr. Sandboys by the arm, he cried, “Here we are. Come along, quick! or we shall be carried off to Chelsea;” and made a desperate effort to reach the plank that connected the “Bee” with the pier; but no sooner did he trust the weight of his body to the treacherous gutta percha limb, which the heat of the funnel had by this time rendered as limp as a stale sugar-stick in a confectioner’s window, than it bent under him like a soldier’s penny cane, and down went the Major on his side, dragging the terrified Cursty along with him. The Major was so unprepared for the mishap, that he was utterly unaware of the cause of his sudden fall, until, on attempting to get up, and trusting once more to his “gummy” leg, he was again precipitated on top of the bewildered Cursty, before that gentleman had time to rise. On looking to the state of his new limb, however, the problem was speedily solved, for he found that his gutta percha calf, softened by the heat of the funnel, had run into his boot, while his artificial ankle had swollen into a “model gout,” while what was originally the thick part of the leg, had been attenuated into a mere tendon, no thicker than a harp-string. Major Oldschool raved at all new-fangled inventions, and vowed as he clasped his head with vexation, that there was nothing like wood, after all, and called himself an idiot for allowing himself to be talked into any such “tomfoolery,” while the passengers laughed violently at the catastrophe; and even the Sandboys, vexed as they felt at the further postponement of their visit to the Crystal Palace, could not refrain from taking part in the merriment excited on the occasion. To proceed to the Exhibition with such a leg was utterly impossible, and to the Sandboys’ great discomfiture nothing remained to be done but to have the _uni-ped_ Major carried to a cab, and conveyed back to Craven-street as rapidly as possible. * * * * * Mr. Cursty Sandboys, as usual, saw that the calamity had been planned by some of the invisible sprites and mischievous elfins in the employ of that blind and spiteful old maid passing under the name of Destiny or Fate, and whom he felt thoroughly convinced were having a hearty demoniac laugh in their phantom sleeves at the many annoyances they were causing him; and no sooner was he once more located within the parlour of Major Oldschool, than he registered a vow on the ceiling of that apartment, that he would never again move a leg to get to that bothering Crystal Palace. It was no use talking to him—go home he _would_—and people might laugh as they pleased.