CHAPTER VIII .-- LETTING LODGINGS.
Then first he ate the white puddings, And syne he ate the black, O; Though muckle thought the Gudewife to hersell, Yet ne'er a word she spak, O.
But up then started our Gudeman, And an angry man was he, O.
_Old Song_.
It would be curious if I passed over a remarkable incident, which at this time fell out.

Being but new beginners in the world, the wife and I put our heads constantly together to contrive for our forward advancement, as it is the bounden duty of all to do.

So our housie being rather large, (two rooms and a kitchen, not speaking of a coal-cellar and a hen-house,) and having as yet only the expectation of a family, we thought we could not do better than get John Varnish the painter, to do off a small ticket, with "A Furnished Room to Let" on it, which we nailed out at the window; having collected into it the choicest of our furniture, that it might fit a genteeler lodger and produce a better rent--And a lodger soon we got.
Dog on it! I think I see him yet.

He was a blackaviced Englishman, with curled whiskers and a powdered pow, stout round the waistband, and fond of good eating, let alone drinking, as we found to our cost.

Well, he was our first lodger.