* * * * *
At an inn in a market town upon the road to Holyhead, a gentleman sat in
the kitchen smoking his pipe, and watching with anxiety a fowl that was
roasting for his supper. At length a tall, meagre figure stalked in, and
after an earnest and melancholy look at the fowl, retired with a sigh.
Repeating his visit he exclaimed, "That fowl will never be done in time."
"What do you mean?" said the gentleman, "that fowl is for my supper, and
you shan't touch a bit of it." "Oh," replied the other, "you misunderstand
me; I don't want the fowl; but I am to play _Oroonoko_ this evening,
and we cannot begin for want of the _jack chain_."