‘What the devil’s the matter?’ groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting upright on the couch.
Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, he did not seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for, after stretching himself very often, and declaring with a shiver that it was ‘infernal cold,’ he made an experiment at the breakfast-table, and proving more successful in it than his less-seasoned friend, remained there.
‘Suppose,’ said Sir Mulberry, pausing with a morsel on the point of his fork, ‘suppose we go back to the subject of little Nickleby, eh?’
‘Which little Nickleby; the money-lender or the ga-a-l?’ asked Lord Verisopht.
‘You take me, I see,’ replied Sir Mulberry. ‘The girl, of course.’
‘You promised me you’d find her out,’ said Lord Verisopht.
‘So I did,’ rejoined his friend; ‘but I have thought further of the matter since then. You distrust me in the business—you shall find her out yourself.’
‘Na-ay,’ remonstrated Lord Verisopht.
‘But I say yes,’ returned his friend. ‘You shall find her out yourself. Don’t think that I mean, when you can—I know as well as you that if I did, you could never get sight of her without me. No. I say you shall find her out—shall—and I’ll put you in the way.’
‘Now, curse me, if you ain’t a real, deyvlish, downright, thorough-paced friend,’ said the young lord, on whom this speech had produced a most reviving effect.