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This circumstantial account, extraordinary as it was, never altered one feature in the countenance of Mr. Pickle, who, having heard it to an end, took the pipe from his mouth, saying, with a look of infinite sagacity and deliberation, “I do suppose he is of the Cornish Trunnions. What sort of a woman is his spouse?” “Spouse!” cried the other; “odds-heart! I don't think he would marry the queen of Sheba. Lack-a-day! sir, he won't suffer his own maids to be in the garrison, but turns them into an out-house every night before the watch is set. Bless your honour's soul, he is, as it were, a very oddish kind of a gentleman. Your worship would have seen him before now; for, when he is well, he and my good master Hatchway come hither every evening, and drink a couple of cans of rumbo a piece; but he has been confined to his house this fortnight by a plaguy fit of the gout, which, I'll assure your worship, is a good penny out of my pocket.”

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