It were surely a breach of politeness on our part not to attend Mr. Ketch in his impromptu evening visit! He shuffled along at the very top of his speed, his mouth watering, while the delicious odour of tripe and onions appeared to be borne on the air to his olfactory nerves: so strong is the force of fancy. Arrived at his destination, he found the shop closed. It was Mrs. Jenkins’s custom to close at seven from October to April; and the shutters had now just been put up. Mr. Ketch seized the knocker on the shop-door—there was no other entrance to the house—and brought it down with a force that shook the first-floor sitting-room, and startled Mr. Harper, the lay clerk, almost out of his armchair, as he sat before the fire. Mrs. Jenkins’s maid, a young person of seventeen, very much given to blacking her face, opened it.

“Be I in time?” demanded Ketch, his voice shaking.

“In time for what?” responded the girl.

“Why, for supper,” said Ketch, penetrating into the shop, which was lighted by a candle that stood on the counter, the one the girl had brought in her hand. “Is old Jenkins the bedesman come yet?”

“Old Jenkins ain’t here,” said she. “You had better go into the parlour, if you’re come to supper.”

Ketch went down the shop, sniffing curiously. Sharp as fancy is, he could not say that he was regaled with the scent of onions, but he supposed the saucepan lid might be on. For, as was known to Mr. Ketch, and to other of the initiated in tripe mysteries, it was generally thought advisable, by good housewives, to give the tripe a boil up at home, lest it should have become cold in its transit from the vendor’s. The girl threw open the door of the small parlour, and told him he might sit down if he liked; she did not overburden the gentleman with civility. “Missis’ll be here soon,” said she.

Ketch entered the parlour, and sat down. There was a fire in the grate, but no light, and there were not, so far as Ketch could see, any preparations yet for the entertainment. “They’re going to have it downstairs in the kitchen,” soliloquized he. “And that’s a sight more comfortabler. She’s gone out to fetch it, I shouldn’t wonder!” he continued, alluding to Mrs. Jenkins, and sniffing again strongly, but without result. “That’s right! she won’t let ‘em serve her with short onions, she won’t; she has a tongue of her own. I wonder how much beer there’ll be!”

He sat on pretty patiently, for him, about half an hour, and then took the liberty of replenishing the fire from a coal-box that stood there. Another quarter of an hour was passed much more impatiently, when Ketch began to grow uneasy and lose himself in all sorts of grave conjectures. Could she have arrived too late, and found the tripe all sold, and so had stopped out to supper herself somewhere? Such a thing as a run on the delicacy had occurred more than once, to Ketch’s certain knowledge, and tardy customers had been sent away disappointed, to wait in longing anticipations for the next tripe night. He went into a cold perspiration at the bare idea. And where was old Jenkins, all this time, that he had not come in? And where was Joe? A pretty thing to invite a gentleman out to an impromptu supper, and serve him in this way! What could they mean by it?

He groped his way round the corner of the shop to where lay the kitchen stairs, whose position he pretty well knew, and called. “Here, Sally, Betty—whatever your name is—ain’t there nobody at home?”

The girl heard, and came forth, the same candle in hand. “Who be you calling to, I’d like to know? My name’s Lidyar, if you please.”

“Where’s your missis?” responded Ketch, suffering the name to drop into abeyance. “Is she gone out for the tripe?”

“Gone out for what tripe?” asked the girl. “What be you talking of?”

“The tripe for supper,” said Ketch.

“There ain’t no tripe for supper,” replied she.

“There is tripe for supper,” persisted Ketch. “And me and old Jenkins are going to have some of it. There’s tripe and onions.”

The girl shook her head. “I dun know nothing about it. Missis is upstairs, fixing the mustard.”

Oh come! this gave a promise of something. Old Ketch thought mustard the greatest condiment that tripe could be accompanied by, in conjunction with onions. But she must have been a long time “fixing” the mustard; whatever that might mean. His spirits dropped again, and he grew rather exasperated. “Go up and ask your missis how long I be to wait?” he growled. “I was told to come here at seven for supper, and now it’s a’most eight.”

The girl, possibly feeling a little curiosity herself, came up with her candle. “Master ain’t so well to-night,” remarked she. “He’s gone to bed, and missis is putting him a plaster on his chest.”

The words fell as ice on old Ketch. “A mustard-plaster?” shrieked he.

“What else but a mustard-plaster!” she retorted. “Did you think it was a pitch? There’s a fire lighted in his room, and she’s making it there.”

Nothing more certain. Poor Jenkins, who had coughed more than usual the last two days, perhaps from the wet weather, and whose chest in consequence was very painful, had been ordered to bed this night by his wife when tea was over. She had gone up herself, as soon as her shop was shut, to administer a mustard-plaster. Ketch was quite stunned with uncertainty. A man in bed, with a plaster on his chest, was not likely to invite company to supper.

Before he had seen his way out of the shock, or the girl had done staring at him, Mrs. Jenkins descended the stairs and joined them, having been attracted by the conversation. She had slipped an old buff dressing-gown over her clothes, in her capacity of nurse, and looked rather en deshabille; certainly not like a lady who is about to give an entertainment.

“He says he’s come to supper: tripe and onions,” said the girl, unceremoniously introducing Mr. Ketch and the subject to her wondering mistress.

Mrs. Jenkins, not much more famous for meekness in expressing her opinions than was Ketch, turned her gaze upon that gentleman. “What do you say you have come for?” asked she.

“Why, I have come for supper, that’s what I have come for,” shrieked Ketch, trembling. “Jenkins invited me to supper; tripe and onions; and I’d like to know what it all means, and where the supper is.”

“You are going into your dotage,” said Mrs. Jenkins, with an amount of scorn so great that it exasperated K............