CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH UNFORTUNATE LOVE MEDITATES REVENGE.
At half-past ten on the following morning, at which time Mr.
Schnackenberger first unclosed his eyes, behold! at the foot of his bed was sitting my hostess of the Golden Sow.

'Aye,' said she, 'I think it's time, Sir: and it's time, I think, to let you know what it is to affront a creditable body before all the world.' 'Nay, for God's sake, old one, what's the matter ?' said Mr.
Schnackenberger, laughing and sitting bolt upright in bed.
'Old?
Well, if I have a few more years on my head, I've a little more thought _in_ it: but, perhaps, you're not altogether so thoughtless as I've been fancying in your actings towards me poor unfortunate widow: if that's the case, you are a base wicked man; and you deserve--' 'Why, woman, how now?
Has a tarantula bit you; or what is it?
Speak.' 'Speak! Aye, I'll speak; and all the world shall hear me.

First of all come you riding into my bar like a crazy man: and I, good easy creature, let myself be wheedled, carry you meat--drink--everything--with my own hands; sit by your side; keep you in talk the whole evening, for fear you should be tired; and, what was my reward?
"March," says you, "old witch." Well, that passed on.

At midnight I am called out of my bed--for your sake: and the end of that job is, that along of you the Sow is half burned down.

But for all that, I say never an ill word to you.