"There is Mr Frenche, sir," continued busha, pointing to the figure of a man lounging in a low chair on the landing place, with his feet resting on the rail before him, and far higher than his head, which leant against the wall of the house, as if he had been a carronade planted against the opposite hill. Under the guidance of one of the overseer's waiting boys, we commenced the zig-zag ascent towards my uncle's dwelling, and as we approached, the feeling of desolateness that pressed on my heart increased, from the extreme stillness of the place even when near to it. Light, or other indication of an inhabited mansion, there was none--even the goats had vanished. "Cold comfort in prospect for me," thought I; "but _allons_, let us see,"--and we moved on until we came to a small outhouse beside a gate, which seemed to open into the enclosure, in the centre of which stood the solitary building. "How terribly still every thing is about Mr Frenche's domicile," said I, as we paused until Flamingo undid the fastening of the gate. "And, pray, what hovel is this that we have come to?" "This?--Oh, it is the kitchen," quoth Twig. "Stop, I will knock up the people." "Don't do any such thing," said Flamingo, who, I saw, was after some vagary. "Here, Mr Brail, get up the stair,"--we had now reached the small platform on which the house stood,--"and creep under his legs, will ye--there, get into the house and conceal yourself, and Twig and I will rouse him, and have some fun before you make your appearance." I gave in to the frolic of the moment, and slipped silently up the few steps of the steep stair, as I was desired. There, on the landing-place, reposed, _al fresco_, Uncle Lathom, sure enough--his chair swung back, his head resting on the door-post, and his legs cocked up, as already described, on the outer railing of the stair. He was sound asleep, and snoring most harmoniously; but just as I stole up, and was in the very act of creeping beneath the yoke to get past him, I touched his limbs slightly; but the start made him lose his balance and fall back into the house, and there I was, like a shrimp in the claws of a lobster, firmly locked in the embrace of my excellent relative--for although his arms were not round my neck, _his legs were_. "Who is that, and what is that, and what have I got hold of now?" roared Uncle Latham, in purest Tipperary. "It is me, sir," I shouted as loud as I could bellow; for as we rolled over and over on the head of the stair, I discovered he had spurs on; but the devil a bit would he relax in his hold of my neck with his legs,--"me, your dutiful nephew, Benjamin Brail--but, for goodness sake, mind you have spurs on, uncle."