Smooth being in for a share of the alarm as well
as the fun, looked along with the rest, when, lo! high on a seat in
the corner, sat _Mr. Punch_, his comical face glowing through a sort
of knot-hole and Toby perched on his right shoulder, growling and
looking as if he wanted to bite every old fudge in the conclave.
_Punch_, to outsecret the players, was, in a very clever sort of way,
taking private notes, the subject matter of which he intended giving
to his readers in a very condensed and elegant volume. This started
the players to their feet, when each seized a book, and, letting fly
at _Punch's_ head, drove him scampering out of Downing street.
"Having got rid of _Mr. Punch_, and bowed the man of the _Times_
politely out, Grandmama Fudge, in a strong Scotch brogue, said, 'Nu,
luds, let us gang awa to the crumpets--bring 'um hither, mya bullies!'
He drew a sort of simple contortion over his broad, hard face, and
mouthed his lips, as if he would the amplest dough-nut be put on his
plate. Palm, just as they were resuming their seats, insinuated that
as the venerable old man was well gone in his dotage, he had better
measure his diet somewhat after the judicious character of his
diplomacy, which was celebrated for its small doses crookedly doled
out.
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