"The old boy, however, ignorant of our orgies, was still bothering his brains to bring about matrimony between his daughter and the veteran--who, though no younger than Methusalem, as stiff as the Monument, and as withered as Belzoni's Piccadilly mummy, had yet the needful, sir--had abundance of the wherewithal--crops of yellow shiners--lots of the real--sported a gig, and kept on board wages a young shaver of all work, with a buff jacket, turned up with sky-blue facings. Only think, sir--only ponder for a moment what a formidable rival I had!" "I hope you beat him off, however," said I. "The greater danger the more honour you know, Mr. Tims." "Of that anon, sir.--Lucy, on her part, angelic creature, professed that she could not dream of being undutiful towards kind old Pa; and that, unless desperate measures were resorted to, _quamprimum_, in the twinkling of a bed-post she would be under the disagreeable necessity to bundle and go with the disabled man of war to the temple of Hymen. Sacrilegious thought! I could not permit it to enter my bosom, and (pardon me for a moment, sir) when I looked down, and caught a glance of my own natty-looking, tight little leg, and dapper Hessians, I recommended her strongly to act on the principle of the Drury-lane play-bill, which says, 'All for Love, or the World well lost.' "Well, sir, hark ye, just to show how things come about. Shortly after this, on the anniversary of my honoured old master, Zachariah Pigtail's birth, when we were allowed to strike work at noon, I determined, as a _dernier resort_, as a clincher, sir, to act the genteel, and invite Miss Lucy, in her furs and falderals, to accompany me to the Exhibition of Pictures. Heavens, sir, how I dressed on that day! The Day and Martin of my boots reflected on the shady side of the street. I took half an hour in tying and retying my neckcloth _en mode_. My handkerchief smelt of lavender, and my hair of oil of thyme--my waistcoat of bergamot, and my inexpressibles of musk. I was a perfect civet for perfumery. My coat, cut in the jemmy fashion, I buttoned to suffocation; but 'pon honour, believe me, sir, no stays, and my shirt neck had been starched _per order_, to the consistence of tin. In short, to be brief, I found, or fancied myself killing--a most irresistible fellow. "I did not dare, however, to call for Miss Lucy at old Pa's, but waited for her at the corner of the street, patiently drumming on my boot, with a knowing little bit of bamboo; and projecting my left arm to her, off we marched in triumph.