Mrs.
Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel.
For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation.

Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host.

While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly.

But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair.
"Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate.

"This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me--ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust.
"I generally do," replied Blueskin, pouring out a bumper of sack.