It was late at night when our cabman, the most polite, and (if his word may be trusted) the most honourable of mankind, rang the bell of Mrs. Shelfer’s house. The house was in a by-street near a large unfinished square, in the northern part of London. Mrs. Shelfer came out at once, sharp and quick and short, and wonderfully queer. At first she took no notice at all of either of as, but began pulling with all her strength at the straps of the heaviest boxes, which, by means known to herself alone, she contrived to drag through the narrow passage, and down three low steps into the little kitchen. Then she hurried back, talking all the time to herself, re-opened the door of the fly, jumped in, and felt under both the seats, and round the lining. Finding nothing there, she climbed upon the driver’s box, and thoroughly examined both that and the roof. Being satisfied now that none of our chattels were left in the vehicle, she shook her little fist at two or three boys, who stood at the corner near the mews, and setting both hands to the farmer’s great hamper or "maun" (as he called it), she dragged it inside the front door, and turned point blanc upon me. "Pray, my good friend, how many is there?" "I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs. Shelfer, your cousin knows best." "Ah, they’re terrible fellows them cabbies, terrible!" The cabman stood by all the time, beating his hands together. "’Twas only last time I went to Barbican, one of ’em come up to me, ’Mrs. Shelfer,’ says he, ’Mrs. Shelfer!’ says I, ’pray my good friend, how do you know my name?’ ’Ho, I knows Charley well enough,’ says he, ’and there ain’t a better fellow living.’ ’A deal too good for you,’ says I, ’and now pray what’s your business with me?’ ’Why, old lady,’ he says, as impudent as the man with the wooden leg, ’you’ve been and left your second best umbrella under the seat of the Botany Bay Bus.’ ’Catch me!’ says I. ’It’s Bible truth,’ says he, ’and my old woman’s got it now.’ ’If you never get drunk,’ says I, ’till that umbrella runs in your shoes, your old woman needn’t steal her lights,’ and with that I ran between the legs of a sheep, hanging up with my Tuscan bonnet on trimmed with white--nothing like it, my good friend, the same as I’ve had these two and twenty years." "What for, Mrs. Shelfer?" I asked in great surprise. "Why, for the butcher to see me, to be sure, Miss. You see he wanted to get me down the mews, and murder me with my little wash-leather bag, as I was going to pay the interest on Shelfer’s double-barrel gun. Ah yes," with a short sigh, "and there’ll be four and ninepence again, next Tuesday."