so he said, "Perhaps you may as well bring in the next dish?"

"Certainly, sir," replied Cake, whisking away both fowl and plate.

The precipitancy of the remove made a gap in the series, and left Tom a little time to speculate on the next "follow."

He wondered what it would be," Blanquette de veau aux champignons," " Côté de Boeuf à la Bonne Femme," or perhaps game dressed in some peculiar way" Escalopes de Chevreuil," or "Faisan à la Péregueux."

"One wouldn't expect French cookery in a house of this sort," observed he, looking at the most perfect public-house appearance of the little parlour and its appurtenances; but there's no saying what one may meet with in this world.

Just then somebody threw open the door, and in rushed Cake with a round vegetable dish, encircled in a napkin, clasped in both hands.

This he set down with a noise betokening the most perfect confidence in its contents.

"Hot plate! hot plate!" exclaimed he, as if a moment's delay might be fatal to the feast.

He lifted the lid, and, lo! four great fat, greasy mutton chops, slightly sprinkled over with bread, appeared.

CHAP. VII.

THE GOLDTRAP ARMS; OR, TROTTING HIM OUT.

USED as our friend Tom Scott is to the solitude of his own chair, still there was such an utter unhomishness in the solitude of the Goldtrap Arms, that he could not compose himself to his accustomed nap after dinner. He was so vexed with the nice little French dish, and also with a great Yorkshire pudding of an omelette that followed, that he would not listen to his host's advice about a bottle of curious old port, that "Sir Digby greatly commended." He therefore had some hot water and sugar, and took his revenge on the bad sherry by making it into negus before Cake's face; -the most practical reproof that can be given an innkeeper.

The musical cuckoo clock struck seven as the hot water came in, hinting by its provoking monotony what a long weary evening it would be.

Who would keep a cuckoo clock that didn't wish to be driven mad?

This was the slowest, prosiest, most unlike a cuckoo, cuckoo clock that ever was heard. It did not seem to travel above four miles an hour. First

it began with a shivering sort of jingle among the works as if they were all loose together, and were in a devil of a hurry to be off; then came a jingling tune, followed by a clap caused by the opening of the wooden shutters, through which the stupid bird emerged on to its board, shouldering its wings, and beginning "Cuckoo !" "Cuckoo !". "Cuckoo!" "Cuckoo!" at intervals of a couple of seconds; so that what with the tune, the noise, the notes, and the striking, the clock was scarcely ever quiet, -a perfect nuisance.

Finding he couldn't sleep, Tom began to exercise himself about the little room. Below the portrait of Mr. Cake hung some book-shelves, containing the usual miscellaneous selection, or rather collection, of an inn library-three old copies of "Boyle's Court Guide," "Drysdale's Sermons," many numbers of the "World of Fashion," a monthly magazine of the courts of London and Paris, "Le Cuisinier Royal, ou, l'Art de Faire la Cuisine," "History of New York," ""The Courser's Companion," two volumes of the "Gentleman's Magazine," a well-thumbed "Baronetage," and an old "Post Office Directory."

mused Tom.

"What dissatisfied mortals men are, to be sure," "Last night, and the night before, I was grumbling and growling (to myself) at the bother of company, and the long-winded stories and hunting eloquence of my noble host, whereas to-night I am fit to cut my throat for want of somebody