as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.
A loud ringing of one of the bells, was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades—
"Sam!"
"Hallo," replied the man with the white hat.
"Number twenty-two wants his boots." he "Ask number twenty-two, wether he'll have 'em now, or wait till he gets 'em," was the reply.
"Come, don't be a fool, Sam," said the girl, coaxingly, "the gentleman wants his boots directly."
"Well, you are a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are," said the boot-cleaner. "Look at these here boots—eleven pair o' boots; and one shoe as b'longs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's number twenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, wen he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a waitin', sir, but I'll attend to you directly."
Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
"Sam," cried the landlady, "where's that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don't you answer?"
"Wouldn't be gen-teel to answer, 'till you'd done talking," replied Sam, gruffly.
"Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor."
The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustled away.
"Number 5," said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and
