Forgetful of the waiting cab, I was tearing along the pave, when the driver, fearful for his fare, galloped his wretched knacker after me, and then I staggered in, and sunk back amongst the hard cushions, ready almost to heap the dirty straw from beneath my feet upon my wretched head, but still I could hear the sympathising words of the cabby as he closed the door. "Pore chap, it must ha' been a scrauntch." For he knew where I had been--where I had seen all--all in that fearful moment--the gnashing teeth which lay at my feet, the man's face, Eva's distorted, mumbling mouth; and I had fled, never to see her more--never to know rest for the aching misery within my heart. Alas! I had seen all, and oh! cabby, faithful charioteer, 'twas indeed an awful scrauntch, for my fancied rival was Michael Angelo Raphael, the Dentist. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is only fair to state, on behalf of the young gentleman from whom the above emanated, that he really seemed very bad indeed; in fact, desperate. But as he could eat very heartily, and evidently used a great deal of pomatum, his case is hopeful. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE MONARCH OF THE MOULD. Sing, poet divine Of your sparkling wine Of Catawba, the luscious nectar; While my humbler lays Shall rise in praise Of a king on whose fame I'll hector. But your lips don't shoot, For my king's but fruit, And your brows don't frown with scorning; For if to an end Came my noble friend, The nation would go into mourning. 'Tis that fruit of earth That the West gave birth, Introduced to our good Queen Bessy; For its glorious savour Has a sweeter flavour Than an epicure's _entree_ messy. Potato, potato, My heart's elate, oh! When you smile on my table brightly; With an epidermis That, so far from firm is That it cracks when I grasp you tightly. For a roast, bake, boil, Stew or fry in oil, No fruit can be called thy equal; For carrot or turnip Might him or her nip, And cause an unpleasant sequel. But thou, free from guile, Indigestion--bile-- Brought home to thy charge were never; For thy soft white meal Is the dinner leal Of Great Britain's sons for ever. To say the least, For a Christmas feast, 'Twould be quite an act of folly, And far less shirky To leave goose or turkey, Than a bowl of potatoes jolly. Why, the old king's friend Sir Loin to attend, Would surely ne'er brown if he knew it; And the very ale Turn beadless--pale, While the beef turn'd cold in its suet. The firmest friend Mother earth could send To her children when pots were minus; Of a pan not the ghost, But they still could roast The old king whereon still we dine us.