in this manner—on this day of all others! Look, sir! Look at your work, scoundrel! She's fainted! Confound you, sir, she's fainted!"
"Be composed, Mr. Bortle," said Lord Portico.
"Be composed! No, sir, I shall not be composed. I am not here to be dictated to by anybody, whatever his rank, Lord Portico—be he baron, viscount, earl, marquis, duke, or king. We are invited here on the pretence of celebrating the fourth anniversary of the birth of my daughter's son and heir, and this insolent joker, whose fortune I and my daughter have made, rises and publicly states at his own table—at his own table, mind—that on this day four years ago, and on this day of all others, and not until this day, he and she were happily married—were happily married—happily married!"
At this point the purple old gentleman fell back gasping in his chair, and was carried out of the room on the very verge of apoplexy, followed by all the ladies in tears.
"I am sorry, my friends," said Foggerty, when the door was closed, "that my poor little joke should have been so unfortunately misconstrued by Mr.—by my very dear father-in-law. Pray let us forget that it happened, and be as jolly as though I had replied in terms that had melted you to tears."
Sir Frederick was readily excused, and after a short interval of rather forced conversation, the gentlemen rose to join the ladies. At this moment the butler put a telegram into Sir Frederick's hand. It was as follows:—
| "Gone Coon, "Cripplegate, |
to | Sir Frederick Foggerty, 352, Lancaster Gate. |
"Crumph jagger puntiboom rubbleburby cowk."
