“You know,” said the Master of the House, mildly, “you are not quite what you represented yourself to be. You said you were forty-five!”
“I think,” wheezed the Ancient Cellarer; “I think I said forty-seven, sir.”
“Oh, forty-seven!” The Master of the House was a little satiric. “Even if you had said forty-seven, you are a great, great deal more than that!”
“Sir,” said the delinquent, with a beery twinkle, “no butler can ever be more than forty-seven.”
This, we understand, is a maxim of life in the profession.
A third—he was young and beautiful—had a fondness for a brew called gin-and-ginger, which had so cheering and immediate effect upon him that, having left the drawing-room after tea the very pink and perfection of propriety, he would announce dinner in an advanced condition of jocular elevation, and when the plates slid out of his hands he would survey them with a waggish smile, as one who would say: “Bless their little hearts, see how playful they are!” We became anxious to secure a servant who would have more than a few streaks of sobriety, and when Susan’s owner came, we felt we had secured that pearl. He came in a great hurry ‹without Susan› because of the equally hurried departure of the beautiful hilarious one. After a week or so, we asked him if he would consider us as a permanency. He said he would have to consider us a little longer. After another ten days he informed us of Susan’s existence, and announced his intention of going to fetch her. We breathed again.
IN THE MATTER OF O’REILLY
