Mr. Barber, thus appealed to, went through something of the same ceremony. Like a blue-bottle cleaning itself, he passed his hands over his breast--round his hips, and down the outside of his thighs,--but the sense of feeling could detect nothing like a coin. “You agreed for a shilling, and you shall have no more,” said the man with empty pockets. “No--no--no--you shall have no more,” said the moneyless Frenchman. By this time the housemaid of Vespasian House, tired of standing with the door in her hand, had come down to the garden-gate, and, willing to make herself generally useful, laid her hand on one of the Foreigner’s trunks. “It shan’t go till I’m paid my shilling,” said the coachman, taking hold of the handle at the other end. The good-natured housemaid instantly let go of the trunk, and seemed suddenly to be bent double by a violent cramp, or stitch, in her right side,--while her hand groped busily under her gown. But it was in vain. There was nothing in that pocket but some curl-papers, and a brass thimble. The stitch or cramp then seemed to attack her other side; again she stooped and fumbled, while Hope and Doubt struggled together on her rosy face. At last Hope triumphed,--from the extremest corner of the huge dimity pouch she fished up a solitary coin, and thrust it exultingly into the obdurate palm. “It won’t do,” said the coachman, casting a wary eye on the metal, and holding out for the inspection of the trio a silver-washed coronation medal, which had been purchased of a Jew for twopence the year before. The poor girl quietly set down the trunk which she had again taken up, and restored the deceitful medal to her pocket. In the meantime the arithmetical usher had arrived at the gate in his way out, but was stopped by the embargo on the luggage. “What’s the matter now?” asked the man of figures. “If you please, Sir,” said the housemaid, dropping a low courtesy, “it’s this impudent fellow of a coachman will stand here for his rights.” “He wants a shilling more than his fare,” said Mr. Barber. “He does want more than his fare shilling,” reiterated the Frenchman. “Coachman! what the devil are we waiting here for?” shouted a stentorian voice from the rear of the stage. “Bless me, John, are we to stay here all day?” cried a shrill voice from the stage’s interior. “If you don’t get up shortly I shall get down,” bellowed a voice from the box. At this crisis the English usher drew his fellow-tutor aside, and whispered something in his ear that made him go through the old manual exercise. He slapped his pantaloons--flapped his coat tails--and felt about his bosom--“I haven’t got one,” said he, and with a shake of the head and a hurried bow, he set off at the pace of a twopenny postman. “I a’n’t going to stand here all day,” said the coachman, getting out of all reasonable patience. “You’re an infernal scoundrelly villain,” said Mr. Barber, getting out of all classical English.