” “I told them a lie. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. 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. I expect Mr. I was at work at it yesterday and the day before. ” She replied. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face.
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