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Updated: May 22, 2025
And as concerning the young pairs, married and unmarried, it's only natural I should bring home what little I can about them, seeing that there's not a Couple of either sort in the neighbourhood that don't come of their own accord to confide in Phoebe." She raised her eyes triumphantly to Barbox Brothers as she said: "Indeed, sir, that is true.
"Upon my soul, Polly," exclaimed Barbox Brothers, very much at a loss, "I have not the slightest idea!" "Then I tell you what," said Polly. "Have you got any cards at your house?" "Plenty," said Barbox Brothers in a boastful vein. "Very well. Then I'll build houses, and you shall look at me. You mustn't blow, you know." "Oh no," said Barbox Brothers. "No, no, no. No blowing. Blowing's not fair."
"It can't be Tappitarver?" said Barbox Brothers, rubbing his head with his hat in discomfiture. "No! It ain't," the child quietly assented. On her trying this unfortunate name once more, with extraordinary efforts at distinctness, it swelled into eight syllables at least. "Ah! I think," said Barbox Brothers with a desperate air of resignation, "that we had better give it up."
Tuesday, the 15th of January, 1867, was the inaugural night of the series, when "Barbox, Brothers," and "The Boy at Mugby," were read for the first time at St. James's Hall, Piccadilly.
He was a spare man of about the Barbox Brothers time of life, with his features whimsically drawn upward as if they were attracted by the roots of his hair.
Hazarding "Trivits," first of all, then "Paddens," then "Tappi-tarver." Eventually, when the two arrive hand-in-hand at Barbox Brothers' hotel, nobody there could make out her name as she set it forth, "except one chambermaid, who said it was Constantinople which it wasn't." No wonder Barbox feels bigger and heavier in person every minute when he is being catechised by Polly!
"I hope so," replied Barbox Brothers. Such was his deference that Polly, elevated on a platform of sofa cushions in a chair at his right hand, encouraged him with a pat or two on the face from the greasy bowl of her spoon, and even with a gracious kiss.
The child, with one swarthy arm held up across his eyes, half in shyness, and half ready for defence, said from behind the inside of his elbow: "Phoebe's." "And who," said Barbox Brothers, quite as much embarrassed by his part in the dialogue as the child could possibly be by his, "is Phoebe?" To which the child made answer: "Why, Phoebe, of course."
The whole establishment turned out to look at the little girl. Nobody knew her; nobody could make out her name, as she set it forth except one chamber-maid, who said it was Constantinople which it wasn't. "I will dine with my young friend in a private room," said Barbox Brothers to the hotel authorities, "and perhaps you will be so good as to let the police know that the pretty baby is here.
But I am quite sure, though we are so newly acquainted, that your head and your father's have found out better things, Phoebe, than ever mine of itself discovered." She gave him her sympathetic right hand, in perfect rapture with his proposal, and eagerly and gratefully thanked him. "That's well!" said Barbox Brothers. Will you shut your eyes?"
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