“Therefore, Benjamin, were I inclined to forego my scruples, and oblige you for this once”--as Uncle Timothy saw the apparent impossibility of obliging, he spoke more freely of his possible compliance--“the thing, you see, is absolutely impracticable.” Mr. Bosky looked anxiously at the clock, and Uncle Tim quite exulted that, while starting an insurmountable obstacle, he had dexterously--handsomely slipped out of a scrape. At this moment a tap was heard at the door, and the old-fashioned housekeeper--a sort of animated dumb-waiter--brought in a blue bag for Uncle Timothy. A carpet-bag is generally significant of its contents. Though now and then things not legitimately belonging to it will creep into a carpet-bag. But in a blue bag there is more room for conjecture. A very equivocal thing is a blue bag. Uncle Timothy, after reading the direction thrice over, untied the blue bag, dived his hand in for its contents, and the first thing he fished up was a bran new blue coat, with brilliant brass buttons. After turning the garment round and round and examining it attentively, he laid it aside, dived again and captured a rich black satin waistcoat. The waistcoat underwent a similar scrutiny, and then took its station beside the blue coat. A third dive brought to the surface a claret-coloured pair of continuations of a very quiet and becoming cut, to which was pinned a respectful note from Mr. Rufus Rumfit of Red Lion Square, stating that the suit had been made exactly to measure, and hoping that it would meet with Uncle Timothy's approbation. “Pray, Benjamin,” inquired the satirical-nosed gentleman, “is this Rufus Rumfit at all given to drink? He talks of having taken my measure: he had surely taken more than his own when he hazarded such an assertion. Some would-be old beau--for the habiliments, I see, are of a mature fashion--is burning to disguise his person in this harlequin suit. My life on't, Mr. Rumfit will soon discover his mistake and be back again.” And' Uncle Timothy began to tumble the blue coat, black satin waistcoat, and claret-coloured continuations into the blue bag with all speed. “The clock strikes. I have no time to lose.” During this exhumation of Mr. Rumfit's handiwork, the Lauréat of Little Britain had been coaxing a favourite parrot, with whom he generally held converse at breakfast time, to talk: but the unusual sight of so much finery had completely absorbed Poll's attention, and he remained obstinately silent, leaving Mr. Bosky to tax his ingenuity how to prevent laughing outright in Uncle Timothy's face. But the affair admitting of no longer delay, he threw himself into a theatrical posture, and exclaimed, “'Thou wert not wont to be so dull, good Tyrrel.'” In an instant the scales fell from the middle-aged gentleman's eyes, and he exclaimed seriously, and trying to look reproachfully, “This, Benjamin, is another of your Tomfooleries.”