Sam guessed he might be own brother to Mr. Wardle’s Fat Boy, Joe, or perhaps “the old gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail—reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t caught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year,” but Mr. Bantam again leaned over from his box and whispered:— “Hush-h-h, my dear sir, nobody is fat or old in Ba-a——I mean in literary circles. Mr. Tubby Haig is a popular author of detective stories, much prized, along with alleytors and commoneys, by the youth of this town.” But a sudden start of Mr. Winkle’s and a rapturous exclamation from Mr. Snodgrass again directed Mr. Pickwick’s attention to the scene. He almost fainted with dismay. Standing in the middle of the stage, in the full glare of the lights, was a lady with her shoulders and back (which she kept turning to the lights) bare to the waist! “Bless my soul,” cried Mr. Pickwick, shrinking behind the curtain of the box, “what a dreadful thing!” He mustered up courage, and looked out again. The lady was still there, not a bit discomposed. “Most extraordinary female, this,” thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. She still remained, however, and even threw an arch glance in Mr. Pickwick’s direction, as much as to say, “You old dear.” “But—but—” cried Mr. Pickwick, in an agony, “won’t she catch cold?” “Bless your heart, no, sir,” said Sam, “she’s quite used to it, and it’s done with the very best intentions, as the gen’l’man said ven he run away from his wife, ’cos she seemed unhappy with him.” If Mr. Pickwick was distressed, very different was the effect of the lovely vision upon Mr. Winkle. Alas for the weakness of human nature! he forgot for the moment all about Arabella. Suddenly grasping his hat, he rose from his seat, said “Good-night, my dear sir,” to Mr. Pickwick between his set teeth, added brokenly, “My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion, do not judge me harshly”—and dashed out of the box. “Very extraordinary,” said Mr. Pickwick to himself, “what _can_ that young man be going to do?” Meanwhile, for Mr. Winkle to rush downstairs, into the street, round the corner, as far as the stage-door, was the work of a moment. Taking out a card engraved “NATHANIEL WINKLE, M.P.C.,” he hastily pencilled a few fervent words on it and handed it to the door-keeper, requiring him instantly to convey it to Miss Teddie Gerard. “What now, imperence,” said the man, roughly pushing him from the door and knocking his hat over his eyes. At the same moment Mr. Winkle found his arms pinioned from behind by Sam Weller, who led him, crestfallen, back into the street and his senses. The public were now leaving the theatre, and Mr. Pickwick, beckoning Mr. Winkle to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic, tone these remarkable words:— “You’re a humbug, sir.” “A what!” said Mr. Winkle, starting. “A humbug, sir.” With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends. MR. CRICHTON AND MR. LITTIMER