"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. But here it is China. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword.
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