Burlesques William Makepeace Thackeray

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poor ending of our expectations, for Jemmy had bragged not a little; however, we did not
care, for the connection was always a good one, and we served Mr. Hock, the valet; Mr.
Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly enough. I used to
powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in my life saw old Tuggeridge, except
once: when he said "Oh, the barber!" tossed up his nose, and passed on.
One day—one famous day last January—all our Market was thrown into a high state of
excitement by the appearance of no less than three vehicles at our establishment. As me,
Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and Orlando, were sitting in the back-parlor over our dinner (it
being Christmas-time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port, and was longing
that there should be a mistletoe-bough: at which proposal my little Jemimarann looked as
red as a glass of negus):—we had just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug
bellows out, "La, Pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!"
And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough—Mrs. Breadbasket in deep mourning, who
made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back shop. My wife, who respected
Mrs. B. more than anything else in the world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine,
and vowed it was very kind of her to come. "La, mem," says Mrs. B., "I'm sure I'd do
anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge,
that's gone."
"That's what?" cries my wife.
"What, gone?" cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls will about anything or
nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and ready to cry too.
"Yes, gaw—" Just as she was at this very "gaw" Tug roars out, "La, Pa! here's Mr. Bar,
uncle Tug's coachman!"
It was Mr. Bar. When she saw him, Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back into the parlor
with my ladies. "What is it, Mr. Bar?" says I; and as quick as thought, I had the towel under
his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair, and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather. Mr.
Bar made some resistance.—"Don't think of it, Mr. Cox," says he; "don't trouble yourself,
sir." But I lathered away and never minded. "And what's this melancholy event, sir," says I,
"that has spread desolation in your family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir—I can feel
for your loss."
I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because Tuggeridge was my
uncle—no, as such I disown him.
Mr. Bar was just about to speak. "Yes, sir," says he, "my master's gaw—" when at the
"gaw" in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!—the finest gentleman I ever saw.