It was this bottle which puzzled Joby, for instead of being empty, it was full of the water known as soda, highly charged with gas by one Schweppe, and though it missed the dog, it struck upon a partly filled coal-scuttle, and exploded with such violence, and so great a scattering of fragments, that for two days Joby preferred to sleep in the park, and had a very narrow escape from a dog-stealer, who tried every blandishment he knew to get the animal to follow him, but without effect. Sometimes he would go and hang about the great house in Portland Place, but there was no admission. Attempts to glide past or between the legs of the servants dismally failed; but he had a look or two at Lord Barmouth, and followed him when he went out, giving sundry sniffs at his pocket, and more than once coming in for a bone. But this was very exceptional, and Joby's was just now a very unsatisfactory and useless life. His lordship swore a little softly and in private about the organ, but ceased as he saw that his daughter took a little interest in the music. "But it's doosed bad taste, Tom, doosed bad taste, my boy; and dear me, how I do long for a glass of port." "Yes, and you'll have to long, governor." "Yes, my boy. Seen Charley Melton lately?" "Yes, looking as if he were going to be hung." "Did he though, my boy? What did you say to him?" "Told him he was a fool." "Oh, Tom, my boy, you shouldn't have done that. I hope he don't think that I'm behaving badly to him. I'd go and see him, but her ladyship would be sure to know. Be civil to him, my boy, for my sake. His father was such an old friend." "Humph, don't seem like it," growled Tom. "But why did you call him a fool, Tom?" "For not making a bolt of it with Maudey." "Oh, no--no--no--no, my boy, that would be very wrong. But what did he say?" "Nothing. Shook his head and walked off." "Yes, yes. Quite right, my boy, quite right. Charley Melton would not do anything to degrade our Maudey like that." "Well, I would if I had a chance," said Tom, "and if I hadn't I'd make one." CHAPTER NINETEEN. TOM AND THE TARTAR. All the same though, consequent upon thinking so much about his sister, Tom made very little progress with his own love affairs. Tryphie Wilder's was not a very pleasant life at Lady Barmouth's. She felt that she had been adopted out of charity, and in her bitterness she would sometimes call herself her ladyship's abuse block, for that lady would call her "little wretch" in private with as much vigour as there was sweetness in the "my dear" of public life. Her ladyship had before now gone so far as to strike her. That very day Tryphie had her revenge, for, going into the drawing-room, she found Tom fast asleep on the sofa, and snipped off the ends of his moustache, wax and all. Tom awoke, and caught and kissed her, and she flew at him, boxed his ears, and then ran out of the room and upstairs, to strike her hand against the wall for being so cruel.