Wellington boots, arrived at the station quaking with mortal terror, and screamed "Help!" at the top of his voice, when the railway policeman opened the cab door. The immediate starting of the train had left him no time to alter the singular travelling arrangements he had made in the Borough; and he arrived at Coolcup House, the only individual who had ever yet entered that mansion with his property in his boots. Amusing as it was in itself, this anecdote failed a little in its effect on us at the time, in consequence of the stifling atmosphere in which we were condemned to hear it. Although it was then the sultry middle of summer, and we were all smoking, Herr von Müffe insisted on keeping the windows of the Bachelor Bedroom fast closed, because it was one of his peculiarities to distrust the cooling effect of the night air. We were more than half inclined to go, under these circumstances; and we were altogether determined to remove, when the tray came in, and when we found our German friend madly mixing his liquors again by pouring gin and sherry together into the same tumbler. We warned him, with a shuddering prevision of consequences, that he was mistaking gin for water; and he blandly assured us in return that he was doing nothing of the kind. "It is good for My ----" said Herr von Müffe, supplying his ignorance of the word stomach by laying his chubby forefinger on the organ in question, with a sentimental smile. "It is bad for Our ----" retorted the wag of the party, imitating the poet's action, and turning quickly to the door. We all followed him--and, for the first time in the annals of Coolcup House, the Bachelor Bedroom was emptied of company before midnight. Early the next morning, one of Sir John's younger sons burst into my room in a state of violent excitement. "I say, what's to be done with Müffe?" inquired the young gentleman, with wildly staring eyes. "Open his windows, and fetch the doctor," I answered, inspired by the recollections of the past night. "Doctor!" cried the boy; "the doctor won't do--it's the barber." "Barber?" I repeated. "He's been asking me _to shave him_!" roared my young friend, with vehement comic indignation. "He rang his bell, and asked for 'the Son of the House'--and they made me go; and there he was, grinning in the big arm-chair, with his mangy little shaving-brush in his hand, and a towel over his shoulder. 'Good morning, my dear. Can you shave My ----' says he, and taps his quivering old double chin with his infernal shaving-brush. Curse his impudence! What's to be done with him?"