“I always thought that paper was Mr. Congreve's,” cries Mr. St. John, showing that he knew more about the subject than he pretended to Mr. Steele, and who was the original Mr. Bickerstaffe drew.

“Tom Boxer said so in his Observator. But Tom's oracle is often making blunders,” cries Steele.

“Mr. Boxer and my husband were friends once, and when the captain was ill with the fever, no man could be kinder than Mr. Boxer, who used to come to his bedside every day, and actually brought Dr. Arbuthnot who cured him,” whispered Mrs. Steele.

“Indeed, madam! How very interesting,” says Mr. St. John.

“But when the captain's last comedy came out, Mr. Boxer took no notice of it—you know he is Mr. Congreve's man, and won't ever give a word to the other house—and this made my husband angry.”

“Oh! Mr. Boxer is Mr. Congreve's man!” says Mr. St. John.

“Mr. Congreve has wit enough of his own,” cries out Mr. Steele. “No one ever heard me grudge him or any other man his share.”