The Royal East London Volunteers made a brilliant sight that day: formed into lines, squares, circles, triangles, and what not, to the beating of drums, and the streaming of flags; and performed a vast number of complex evolutions, in all of which Serjeant Varden bore a conspicuous share.

Having displayed their military prowess to the utmost in these warlike shows, they marched in glittering order to the Chelsea Bun House, and regaled in the adjacent taverns until dark.

Then at sound of drum they fell in again, and returned amidst the shouting of His Majesty's lieges to the place from whence they came.
The homeward march being somewhat tardy,--owing to the un-soldierlike behaviour of certain corporals, who, being gentlemen of sedentary pursuits in private life and excitable out of doors, broke several windows with their bayonets, and rendered it imperative on the commanding officer to deliver them over to a strong guard, with whom they fought at intervals as they came along,--it was nine o'clock when the locksmith reached home.

A hackney-coach was waiting near his door; and as he passed it, Mr Haredale looked from the window and called him by his name.
'The sight of you is good for sore eyes, sir,' said the locksmith, stepping up to him.

'I wish you had walked in though, rather than waited here.' 'There is nobody at home, I find,' Mr Haredale answered; 'besides, I desired to be as private as I could.' 'Humph!' muttered the locksmith, looking round at his house.