As we came through the lodge-gates, we found a crowd assembled within them; and there was that horrid Tuggeridige on horseback, with a shabby-looking man, called Mr.Scapgoat, and his man of business, and many more.

"Mr.Scapgoat," says Tuggeridge, grinning, and handing him over a sealed paper, "here's the lease; I leave you in possession, and wish you good morning." "In possession of what ?" says the rightful lady of Tuggeridgeville, leaning out of the carriage-window.

She hated black Tuggeridge, as she called him, like poison: the very first week of our coming to Portland Place, when he called to ask restitution of some plate which he said was his private property, she called him a base-born blackamoor, and told him to quit the house.

Since then there had been law squabbles between us without end, and all sorts of writings, meetings, and arbitrations.
"Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam," roars he, "left me by my father's will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and know as well as I do." "Old Tug left no will," shrieked Jemmy; "he didn't die to leave his estates to blackamoors--to negroes--to base-born mulatto story-tellers; if he did may I be -- ---" "Oh, hush! dearest mamma," says Jemimarann.

"Go it again, mother!" says Tug, who is always sniggering.
"What is this business, Mr.Tuggeridge ?" cried Tagrag (who was the only one of our party that had his senses).