The king
      elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; the gouty little
      old man puffed like a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding
      sheet waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman in the cotton
      drawers pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a
      dying fish; and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his
      eyes. “Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general
      excitation, “ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—I was
      saying,” said he, “I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his
      marlin-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more
      or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like
      myself not overstowed—but when it comes to drinking the health of
      the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down upon my marrow
      bones to his ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I
      know myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world, but
      Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player!—why! it’s quite another guess
      sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my
      comprehension.”

      He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the
      name Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from their name
      seats. “Treason!” shouted his Majesty King Pest the First. “Treason!” said the little man with the gout. “Treason!” screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. “Treason!” muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up. “Treason!” growled he of the coffin. “Treason! treason!” shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and,
      seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate
      Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull
      of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall
      without ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale. Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl
      of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool
      of foam which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles
      easily succeeded in creating. Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture
      of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the
      valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and
      strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the
      skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so
      much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses of light
      died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the
      brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with
      all his force against the fatal hogshead full of October ale and
      Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. Out
      burst a deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetuous—so
      overwhelming—that the room was flooded from wall to wall—the
      loaded table was overturned—the tressels were thrown upon their
      backs—the tub of punch into the fire-place—and the ladies into
      hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs,
      pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the _mêlée_, and
      wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The
      man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot—the little stiff
      gentleman floated off in his coffin—and the victorious Legs,
      seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with
      her into the street, and made a bee-line for the _Free and Easy_,
      followed under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who,
      having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him
      with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest. THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK


      “You hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,
      fusty, old savage!” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand
      uncle Rumgudgeon—shaking my fist at him in imagination. Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy _did_
      exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the
      courage to say—between what I did and what I had half a mind to
      do. The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting
      with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his
      paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty. Remplis ton verre vide! Vide ton verre plein! “My _dear_ uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and
      approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so
      very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in
      so many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to suggest
      this little point to you once more to make sure of your full
      acquiescence.”

      “Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!”

      “I am sure, my dearest uncle (you confounded old rascal! ), that
      you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with
      Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!—how very
      pleasant you are at times.”

      “Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!”

      “To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all
      that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us
      with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, uncle—in short,
      when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding
      shall—shall—come off, you know?”

      “Come off, you scoundrel!—what do you mean by that?—Better wait
      till it goes on.”

      “Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh,
      that’s good!—oh, that’s capital—_such_ a wit! But all we want
      just _now_, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time
      precisely.”

      “Ah!—precisely?”

      “Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”

      “Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random—some
      time within a year or so, for example?—_must_ I say precisely?”

      “_If_ you please, uncle—precisely.”

      “Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t
      you?—since you _will_ have the exact time I’ll—why I’ll oblige
      you for once.”

      “Dear uncle!”

      “Hush, sir!” (drowning my voice)—“I’ll oblige you for once. You
      shall have my consent—and the _plum_, we mus’n’t forget the
      plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it? Well, then, you shall be married precisely—_precisely_, now
      mind!—_when three Sundays come together in a week!_ Do you hear
      me, sir! _What_ are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and
      her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but not
      _till_ then—you young scapegrace—not _till_ then, if I die for
      it. You know me—_I’m a man of my word_—now be off!” Here he
      swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in
      despair.