Burlesques William Makepeace Thackeray

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Paris grew dull to us after this, and we were more eager than ever to go back to London: for
what should we hear, but that that monster, Tuggeridge, of the City—old Tug's black son,
forsooth!—was going to contest Jemmy's claim to the property, and had filed I don't know
how many bills against us in Chancery! Hearing this, we set off immediately, and we
arrived at Boulogne, and set off in that very same "Grand Turk" which had brought us to
France.
If you look in the bills, you will see that the steamers leave London on Saturday morning,
and Boulogne on Saturday night; so that there is often not an hour between the time of
arrival and departure. Bless us! bless us! I pity the poor Captain that, for twenty-four hours
at a time, is on a paddle-box, roaring out, "Ease her! Stop her!" and the poor servants, who
are laying out breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, supper;—breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, supper
again;—for layers upon layers of travellers, as it were; and most of all, I pity that unhappy
steward, with those unfortunate tin-basins that he must always keep an eye over. Little did
we know what a storm was brooding in our absence; and little were we prepared for the
awful, awful fate that hung over our Tuggeridgeville property.
Biggs, of the great house of Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick, was our man of business: when
I arrived in London I heard that he had just set off to Paris after me. So we started down to
Tuggeridgeville instead of going to Portland Place. As we came through the lodge-gates,
we found a crowd assembled within them; and there was that horrid Tuggeridige on
horseback, with a shabby-looking man, called Mr. Scapgoat, and his man of business, and
many more. "Mr. Scapgoat," says Tuggeridge, grinning, and handing him over a sealed
paper, "here's the lease; I leave you in possession, and wish you good morning."
"In possession of what?" says the rightful lady of Tuggeridgeville, leaning out of the
carriage-window. She hated black Tuggeridge, as she called him, like poison: the very first
week of our coming to Portland Place, when he called to ask restitution of some plate
which he said was his private property, she called him a base-born blackamoor, and told
him to quit the house. Since then there had been law squabbles between us without end, and
all sorts of writings, meetings, and arbitrations.
"Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam," roars he, "left me by my father's
will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and know as well as I do."
"Old Tug left no will," shrieked Jemmy; "he didn't die to leave his estates to blackamoors—
to negroes—to base-born mulatto story-tellers; if he did may I be ——-"
"Oh, hush! dearest mamma," says Jemimarann. "Go it again, mother!" says Tug, who is
always sniggering.