At length Billy descended in a suit of those tigerish tweeds into which he had lapsed since he got away from Mamma, and was received with a round of tallihos and view-holloas by Cuddy, who had been studying _Bell’s Life_ with exemplary patience in the little bookless library, reading through all the meets of the hounds as if he was going to send a horse to each of them. Then Cuddy took his revenge on the servants by ringing for everything he could think of, demanding them all in the name of Mr. Pringle; just as an old parish constable used to run frantically about a fair demanding assistance from everybody in the name of the Queen. Mr. Pringle wanted devilled turkey, Mr. Pringle wanted partridge pie, Mr. Pringle wanted sausages, Mr. Pringle wanted chocolate, Mr. Pringle wanted honey, jelly and preserve. Why the deuce, didn’t they send Mr. Pringle his breakfast in properly? And if the servants didn’t think Billy a very great man, it wasn’t for want of Cuddy trying to make them. And so, what with Cuddy’s exertions and the natural course of events, Billy obtained a very good breakfast. The last cup being at length drained, Cuddy clutched _Bell’s Life_, and wheeling his semicircular chair round to the fire, dived into his side pocket, and, producing a cigar-case, tendered Billy a weed. And Cuddy did it in such a matter-of-course way, that much as Billy disliked smoking, he felt constrained to accept one, thinking to get rid of it by a sidewind, just as he had got rid of old Wotherspoon’s snuff, by throwing it away. So, taking his choice, he lit it, and prepared to beat a retreat, but was interrupted by Cuddy asking where “he was going?” “Only into the open air,” replied Billy, with the manner of a professed smoker. “Open air, be hanged!” retorted Cuddy. “Open airs well enough in summer-time when the roses are out, and the strawberries ripe, but this is not the season for that kind of sport. No, no, come and sit here, man,” continued he, drawing a chair alongside of him for Billy, “and let’s have a chat about hunting.” “But Sir Moses won’t like his room smoked in,” observed Billy, making a last effort to be off. “Oh, Sir Moses don’t care!” rejoined Cuddy, with a jerk of his head; “Sir Moses don’t care! can’t hurt such rubbish as this,” added he, tapping the arm of an old imitation rose-wood painted chair that stood on his left. “No old furniture broker in the Cut, would give ten puns for the whole lot, curtains, cushions, and all,” looking at the faded red hangings around. So Billy was obliged to sit down and proceed with his cigar. Meanwhile Cuddy having established a good light to his own, took up his left leg to nurse, and proceeded with his sporting speculations.