Mr George has recovered himself, and stands up like a soldier. “Come,” he says; “I am ready.”

“George,” continues Mr Bucket, “wait a bit!” With his upholsterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. “This is a serious charge, George, and such is my duty.”

The trooper flushes angrily, and hesitates a moment; but holds out his two hands, clasped together, and says, “There! Put them on!”

Mr Bucket adjusts them in a moment. “How do you find them? Are they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I’ve got another pair in my pocket.” This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman, anxious to execute an order neatly, and to the perfect satisfaction of his customer. “They’ll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see, George;” he takes a cloak from a corner, and begins adjusting it about the trooper’s neck; “I was mindful of your feelings when I come out, and brought this on purpose. There! Who’s the wiser?”

“Only I,” returns the trooper; “but, as I know it, do me one more good turn, and pull my hat over my eyes.”

“Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain’t it a pity? It looks so.”

“I can’t look chance men in the face with these things on,” Mr George hurriedly replies. “Do, for God’s sake, pull my hat forward.”

So strongly entreated, Mr Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and conducts his prize into the streets; the trooper marching on as steadily as usual, though with his head less erect; and Mr Bucket steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.