zling on the gridiron for our supper. Butchers were butchers then, and their parlor was their kitchen, too; at least old Brisket's was.—One door leading into the shop, and one into the yard, on the other side of which was the slaughter-house.
Fancy, then, our horror when, just at this critical time, we heard the shop door open, a heavy staggering step on the flags, and a loud husky voice from the shop, shouting, "Hallo, Susan; hallo, Betsey! show a light!" Dobble turned as white as a sheet; the two girls each as red as a lobster; I alone preserved my presence of mind. "The back door," says I.—"The dog's in the court," says they. "He's not so bad as the man," says I. "Stop," cries Susan, flinging open the door, and rushing to the fire: "take this, and perhaps it will quiet him."
What do you think "this" was? I'm blest if it was not the steak!
She pushed us out, patted and hushed the dog, and was in again in a minute. The moon was shining on the court, and on the slaugher-house, where there
