Hurrying on Fogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, up to the Major’s quatrième, where we were cheerfully bidden to come in. The little gentleman was in his travelling jacket, and occupied in painting, elegantly, one of those natty pairs of boots in which he daily promenaded the Boulevards. A couple of pairs of tough buff gloves had been undergoing some pipe-claying operation under his hands; no man stepped out so spick and span, with a hat so nicely brushed, with a stiff cravat tied so neatly under a fat little red face, with a blue frock-coat so scrupulously fitted to a punchy little person, as Major British, about whom we have written these two pages. He stared rather hardly at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of the hand, and we proceeded at once to business. “Major British,” said I, “we want your advice in regard to an unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson.” “Pogson, take a chair.” “You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais the other day, encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome woman.” British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was, could not help feeling pleased. “Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovely creature than was she with him; for, it appears, she gave him her card, invited him to her house, where he has been constantly, and has been received with much kindness.” “I see,” says British. “Her husband the Baron—” “NOW it’s coming,” said the Major, with a grin: “her husband is jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois de Boulogne: my dear sir, you can’t refuse—can’t refuse.” “It’s not that,” said Pogson, wagging his head passionately. “Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with Pogson as his lady was, and has introduced him to some very distingué friends of his own set. Last night one of the Baron’s friends gave a party in honor of my friend Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at cards BEFORE he was made drunk, and heaven knows how much after.” “Not a shilling, by sacred heaven!—not a shilling!” yelled out Pogson. “After the supper I ’ad such an ’eadach’, I couldn’t do anything but fall asleep on the sofa.” “You ’ad such an ’eadach’, sir,” says British, sternly, who piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns a cockney. “Such a H-eadache, sir,” replied Pogson, with much meekness. “The unfortunate man is brought home at two o’clock, as tipsy as possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking, receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before—a lord’s son, Major, a tip-top fellow,—who brings a couple of bills that my friend Pogson is said to have signed.” “Well, my dear fellow, the thing’s quite simple,—he must pay them.” “I can’t pay them.” “He can’t pay them,” said we both in a breath: “Pogson is a commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how the deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds?”