“Quick!” He dragged me into the shadow of the lane. “Hast a crown in thy pocket?” “Why?” “Why, for a good turn. I’ll fog these gentry for thee. Many thanks, comrade,” as I pull’d out the last few shillings of my pocket money. “Now pitch thy sword over the wall here, and set thy foot on my hand. ’Tis a rich man’s garden, t’other side, that I was meaning to explore myself; but another night will serve.” “’Tis Master Carter’s,” said I; “and he’s my kinsman.” “The devil!—but never mind, up with thee! Now mark a pretty piece of play. ’Tis pity thou shouldst be across the wall and unable to see.” He gave a great hoist: catching at the coping of the wall, I pull’d myself up and sat astride of it. “Good turf below—ta-ta, comrade!” By now, the crowd was almost at the corner. Dropping about eight feet on to good turf, as the fellow had said, I pick’d myself up and listen’d. “Which way went he?” call’d one, as they came near. “Down the street!” “No: up the lane!’” “Hush!” “Up the lane, I’ll be sworn.” “Here, hand the lantern!” &c., &c. While they debated, my friend stood close on the other side of the wall: but now I heard him dash suddenly out, and up the lane for his life. “There he goes!” “Stop him!” the cries broke out afresh. “Stop him, i’ the king’s name!” The whole pack went pelting by, shouting, stumbling, swearing. For two minutes or more the stragglers continued to hurry past by ones and twos. As soon as their shouts died away, I drew freer breath and look’d around. I was in a small, turfed garden, well stock’d with evergreen shrubs, at the back of a tall house that I knew for Master Carter’s. But what puzzled me was a window in the first floor, very brightly lit, and certain sounds issuing therefrom that had no correspondence with my kinsman’s reputation. “It was a frog leap’d into a pool— Fol—de—riddle, went souse in the middle! Says he, This is better than moping in school. With a—” “—Your Royal Highness, have some pity! What hideous folly! Oh, dear, dear—” “With a fa-la-tweedle-tweedle, Tiddifol-iddifol-ido!” “—Your Royal Highness, I _cannot_ sing the dreadful stuff! Think of my grey hairs!” “Tush! Master Carter—nonsense; ’tis choicely well sung. Come, brother, the chorus!” “With a fa-la—” And the chorus was roar’d forth, with shouts of laughter and clinking of glasses. Then came an interval of mournful appeal, and my kinsman’s voice was again lifted—— “He scattered the tadpoles, and set ’em agog, Hey! nod-noddy-all head and no body! Oh, mammy! Oh, minky!—” “—O, mercy, mercy! it makes me sweat for shame.”