“Saucy cur,” cried the woman, somehow misunderstanding him; “do you cunningly taunt me with _wearing_ the breeches’? begone!” Once more poor Israel decamped, and made for another friend. But here a monstrous bull-dog, indignant that the peace of a quiet family should be disturbed by so outrageous a tatterdemalion, flew at Israel’s unfortunate coat, whose rotten skirts the brute tore completely off, leaving the coat razeed to a spencer, which barely came down to the wearer’s waist. In attempting to drive the monster away, Israel’s hat fell off, upon which the dog pounced with the utmost fierceness, and thrusting both paws into it, rammed out the crown and went snuffling the wreck before him. Recovering the wretched hat, Israel again beat a retreat, his wardrobe sorely the worse for his visits. Not only was his coat a mere rag, but his breeches, clawed by the dog, were slashed into yawning gaps, while his yellow hair waved over the top of the crownless beaver, like a lonely tuft of heather on the highlands. In this plight the morning discovered him dubiously skirmishing on the outskirts of a village. “Ah! what a true patriot gets for serving his country!” murmured Israel. But soon thinking a little better of his case, and seeing yet another house which had once furnished him with an asylum, he made bold to advance to the door. Luckily he this time met the man himself, just emerging from bed. At first the farmer did not recognize the fugitive, but upon another look, seconded by Israel’s plaintive appeal, beckoned him into the barn, where directly our adventurer told him all he thought prudent to disclose of his story, ending by once more offering to negotiate for breeches and coat. Having ere this emptied and thrown away the purse which had played him so scurvy a trick with the first farmer, he now produced three crown-pieces. “Three crown-pieces in your pocket, and no crown to your hat!” said the farmer. “But I assure you, my friend,” rejoined Israel, “that a finer hat was never worn, until that confounded bull-dog ruined it.” “True,” said the farmer, “I forgot that part of your story. Well, I have a tolerable coat and breeches which I will sell you for your money.” In ten minutes more Israel was equipped in a gray coat of coarse cloth, not much improved by wear, and breeches to match. For half-a-crown more he procured a highly respectable looking hat. “Now, my kind friend,” said Israel, “can you tell me where Horne Tooke and John Bridges live?” Our adventurer thought it his best plan to seek out one or other of those gentlemen, both to report proceedings and learn confirmatory tidings concerning Squire Woodcock, touching whose fate he did not like to inquire of others. “Horne Tooke? What do you want with Horne Tooke,” said the farmer. “He was Squire Woodcock’s friend, wasn’t he? The poor Squire! Who would have thought he’d have gone off so suddenly. But apoplexy comes like a bullet.”