rubbing as much of them as his short arms could reach; with an air
that added, 'Here I am if it's bad, and I don't want to go out if
it's good.'

'Blowing and sleeting hard,' returned his wife; 'and threatening
snow. Dark. And very cold.'

'I'm glad to think we had muffins,' said the former porter, in the
tone of one who had set his conscience at rest. 'It's a sort of
night that's meant for muffins. Likewise crumpets. Also Sally
Lunns.'

The former porter mentioned each successive kind of eatable, as if
he were musingly summing up his good actions. After which he
rubbed his fat legs as before, and jerking them at the knees to get
the fire upon the yet unroasted parts, laughed as if somebody had
tickled him.

'You're in spirits, Tugby, my dear,' observed his wife.

The firm was Tugby, late Chickenstalker.

'No,' said Tugby. 'No. Not particular. I'm a little elewated.
The muffins came so pat!'

With that he chuckled until he was black in the face; and had so
much ado to become any other colour, that his fat legs took the
strangest excursions into the air. Nor were they reduced to
anything like decorum until Mrs. Tugby had thumped him violently on
the back, and shaken him as if he were a great bottle.