Why, replied Ben, it is this: Sloan, stepping in one day, to see Sir Isaac, was told by his servant that he was up in his study, but would be down immediately; _for there, sir, you see is his dinner, which I have just set on the table_.--It was a pheasant so neatly browned in the roasting, and withal so plump and inviting to the eye, that Sloan could not resist the temptation; but venturing on his great intimacy with the knight, sat down and picked the delicious bird to the bone; having desired the cook in all haste to clap another to the spit. Presently down came Sir Isaac--was very glad to see his friend Sloan--how had he been all this time? and how did he leave his good lady and family? you have not dined? No. Very glad of it indeed; very glad. Well then, come dine with me.--Turning to the table, he sees the dish empty, and his plate strewed with the bones of his favourite pheasant.--_Lord bless me!_ he exclaimed, clasping his forehead, and looking betwixt laughing and blushing, at Sloan--_what am I good for? I have dined, as you see, my dear friend, and yet I had entirely forgot it!_ I don't believe a syllable of it, said Collins; not one syllable of it, sir. No, replied Ben; nor one syllable, I suppose, of his famous courtship, when sitting by an elegant young lady, whom his friends wished him to make love to, he seized her lily white hand. But instead of pressing it with rapture to his bosom, he thrust it into the bowl of his pipe that he was smoking; thus making a tobacco stopper of one of the loveliest fingers in England; to the inexpressible mortification of the company, and to the most dismal scolding and screaming of the dear creature!