For a moment Titmouse made no answer, but, dropping his cigar, fixed his eyes intently on the paper, which began to rustle in his trembling hands. What occasioned this outbreak, with its subsequent agitation, was the following advertisement, which appeared in the most conspicuous part of the "SUNDAY FLASH:"-- "NEXT OF KIN--Important.--The next of kin, if any such there be, of GABRIEL TITTLEBAT TITMOUSE, formerly of WHITEHAVEN, cordwainer, and who died somewhere about the year 1793, in London, may hear of something of the GREATEST POSSIBLE IMPORTANCE to himself, or herself, or themselves, by immediately communicating with Messrs. QUIRK, GAMMON, and SNAP, Solicitors, Saffron Hill. No time is to be lost. 9th July 18--.--_The third advertisement._" "By George! Here _is_ a go!" exclaimed Huckaback, almost as much flustered as Titmouse over whose shoulder he had hastily read the above paragraph. "We aren't dreaming, Hucky--are we?" inquired Titmouse, faintly, his eyes still glued to the newspaper. "No--by George! Never was either of us fellows so precious wide awake in our lives before! that I'll answer for!" Titmouse sat still, and turned paler even than before. "Read it up, Huck!--Let's hear how it _sounds_, and then we shall believe it!" said he, handing the paper to his friend. Huckaback read it aloud. "It sounds like something, don't it?" inquired Titmouse, tremulously, his color a little returning. "Uncommon!--If this isn't _something_, then there's nothing in anything any more!" replied Huckaback, solemnly, at the same time emphatically slapping the table. "No!--'Pon my soul! but do you really think so?" said Titmouse, seeking still further confirmation than he had yet derived from his senses of sight and hearing. "I do, by jingo!" repeated Huckaback--"What a go it is!--Well, my poor old mother used to say, 'depend on it, wonders never _will_ cease;' and curse me if she ever said a truer word!" Titmouse again read over the advertisement; and then picking up and relighting his fragment of cigar, puffed earnestly in silence for some moments. "Such things never happens to such a poor devil of a chap as me!" exclaimed Huckaback, with a sigh. "What _is_ in the wind, I wonder?" muttered Titmouse. "Who knows--hem!--who knows?--But now, _really_"---- he paused, and once more read over the pregnant paragraph.--"It can't--no, curse me, it _can't_ be"---- he added, looking very serious. "What, Tit? _What_ can't be?" interrupted Huckaback, eagerly. "Why, I've been thinking--but what do _you_ think, eh?--it can't _hardly_ be a cursed hoax of the chaps in the premises at Tag-rag's?"