had a glass of shrub and a biscuit, and told the
young man that, as I was rather tired, I would
sit and rest myself a bit. Well, I hadn't been
there five minutes before I heard voices in the
next room, and George's above all, crying,
"Order, order!" And then I heard somebody
say, "Oh, bother the accounts; put them books
away, and let's get to business."  "Hear, hear!"
everybody cried, and there was a tremendous
knocking on the tables, and a voice called out,
"Give your orders, gentlemen, the waiter is in
the room;" and then there was a scuffling about
and a chinking of glasses, and after a little delay
a voice cried out, "Tile the door, Joseph,
Brother Bensley will oblige." I heard a bolt go,
there was more knocking on the tables, and
then somebody—Brother Bensley, I suppose—
began to sing the "Haymakers " through his
nose, and after each verse they all took up the
chorus. At the end of this song, which seemed
to be applauded with hammers, I heard another
voice ask, " What shall we say after that,
Brother Bensley?" and Brother Bensley replied,
"May the present moment be the worst of
our lives." Everybody cried "Hear, hear, hear!"
and the hammer went at it again. I stopped a
full hour, and this sort of thing went on all the
time. After each song, it was always, "Give
your orders, gentlemen, the waiter is in the
room;" and then, "Tile the door, Joseph,
Brother this, that, or the other will oblige;"
then the bolt went, and the song began, and
the company took up the chorus and clapped
their hands and knocked, and made such a
noise as I never heard.

Well, I couldn't with conscience remain any
longer on a glass of shrub and a biscuit, so I
went away and took a walk as far as John's, and
stopped with Jane for more than an hour, and
went back again to the Yorkshire Grey about
eleven; and would you believe it, they were still
at it, singing choruses and hammering on the
tables like mad. And I hadn't listened outside
for more than five minutes, before I heard my
George singing Home sweet Home, and I knew
very well by his voice what state he was in.
Some women would have walked right into the
room and had him out there and then; but
whatever my feelings may be, a thing I never will do
is to go and fetch my husband out of the public-
house. If a man demeans himself in such a
place, that's no reason a woman should; and
from all I hear you don't get anything by it but
dirt thrown in your face, as the publican always
sides with his customers, and a wife as goes and
interferes with her husband, when he is spending
his money and enjoying himself, is looked upon
as a curse. So I didn't wait to see or hear any
more, but went straight home, and, the fire not
being out, sat up for George, determined to give
him a bit of my mind for once. It was past one
when he arrived. I knew what state he was in
before he came in, by the way he boggled with
the latch-key, which is a thing I am sorry I ever
consented to, and which I might have nipped
in the bud if I had begun in time; but let such
things only take root, and grow, and it's a
charter ever afterwards. You wouldn't believe
the artfulness of George when he's half-seas over.

I often wonder how he can do it, with the
drink in and the wit out as it is, when he
comes home in that state? He'll stand just for
a minute in the passage to balance himself, and
then he'll come in with a bounce to make
believe that he's brisk, and steady, and all right.
And always when he comes in like that he
smiles—oh, so idiotic!—and says, "Well."
And I says, "Is it well?" and gives him a look
which he can't abear, I know. "Don't be
angry, Susan?" he says; "I didn't intend to stop
out so late, but the business of the lodge was
rather heavy to-night, and—"  "Fiddlesticks!"
I says. "Oh, don't talk like that, Susan," he
says; "you know it's for my good and yours
too."  "What!" I says, "drinking, and smoking,
and singing songs to this hour in the
morning! it's for the good of the Yorkshire
Grey—that's whose good it's for. I know what
your business is—it's hip, hip, hurrah, bravo,
a very good song, and very well sung; give
your orders, gentlemen, the waiter's in the
room; tile the door, Joseph, Brother George
will oblige with Home, sweet Home. Oh, you
like your sweet home better than the Yorkshire
Grey, don't you?"  "Susan," he says, "I can't
stand this."  "No," I says, "you can't abear
to be told of your faults; but you shan't complain
that I'm aggravating because I sit and say
nothing; I intend to speak my mind, now, and
I tell you, George, you are a great big pigeon
that flies down every other night to the Yorkshire
Grey to be plucked. Odd Fellows, indeed.
Old fools you are, the lot of you."

You should have seen how George opened
his eyes to hear me come out like that. He
flopped down in a chair, and sat staring at me
like a stuck pig, and all he said was "La,
Susan."  "You know now what I think of you,
George," I says, "and let me tell you that I
know all about your Odd Fellows' Society, and
your lodge nights, and your courts, and your
benefits, and all the rest of the rubbish."
"Rubbish!" he says. "Rubbish," I says;
"what's all this but rubbish?" and I out with
the drawer and flung all his regalia, as he calls
them, in a heap before him on the floor.
"What do you call this?" I says, and I took
them up one by one—a blue sash embroidered
with the arms of the order, a ridiculous thing
for all the world like the picture in Zadkiel's
almanack, a satin apron, a silk velvet collar, a
gold sash tie, a silver star, a gold tassel, and
two rosettes. "One would think," I says,
"that you was a sweep, and that you had got
all these rags together to go out with Jack-in-
the-Green on the first ot May. And here's
the bill," I says; "sash with the ridiculous
arms of the order, eight-and-six; apron
six shillings, collar five shillings, sash-tie one-
and-nine, star one-and-six, tassel one-and-
nine, rosettes three-and-six—total, one pound
nine shillings, and all to make a guy of
yourself."  "Well, but you know, Susan," he says,
these things are necessary to distinguish the