“_Tweet, tweet, tweet!_” who have we here? All eyes turn up the Cherryburn road; the roused hounds prick their ears, and are with difficulty restrained from breaking away. It’s Walker, the cross postman’s gig, and he is treating himself to a twang of the horn. But who has he with him? Who is the red arm-folded man lolling with as much dignity as the contracted nature of the vehicle will allow? A man in red, with cap and beard, and all complete. Why it’s Monsieur! Monsieur coming _in forma pauperis_, after Sir Moses’ liberal offer to send him to cover,—Monsieur in a faded old sugar-loaf shaped cap, and a scanty coat that would have been black if it hadn’t been red. 266m _Original Size_ Still Walker trots him up like a man proud of his load amid the suppressed titters and “Who’s this?” of the company. Sir Moses immediately vouchsafes him protection—by standing erect in his stirrups, and exclaiming with a waive of his right hand, “Ah, Monsieur! _comment vous portez-vous?_” “Pretty bobbish, I tenk you, sare, opes you are vell yourself and all de leetle Mainchanees,” replied Monsieur, rising in the gig, showing the scrimpness of his coat and the amplitude of his cinnamon-coloured peg-top trousers, thrust into green-topped opera-boots, much in the style of old Paul Pry. Having put something into Walker’s hand, Monsieur alights with due caution and Walker whipping on, presently shows the gilt “V. R.” on the back of his red gig as he works his way through the separating crowd. Walker claims to be one of Her Majesty’s servants; if not to rank next to Lord Palmerston, at all events not to be far below him. And now Monsieur being left to himself, thrusts his Malacca cane whip stick under his arm, and drawing on a pair of half-dirty primrose-coloured kid gloves, pokes into the crowd in search of his horse, making up to every disengaged one he saw, with “Is dee’s for me? Is dee’s for me?”