‘Your meaning exactly, you brazen scarecrow,—what’s your meaning?’ retorted Quilp. ‘Why do you talk to me of combining together? Do I combine? Do I know anything about your combinings?’
‘No no, sir—certainly not; not by any means,’ returned Brass.
‘If you so wink and nod at me,’ said the dwarf, looking about him as if for his poker, ‘I’ll spoil the expression of your monkey’s face, I will.’
‘Don’t put yourself out of the way I beg, sir,’ rejoined Brass, checking himself with great alacrity. ‘You’re quite right, sir, quite right. I shouldn’t have mentioned the subject, sir. It’s much better not to. You’re quite right, sir. Let us change it, if you please. You were asking, sir, Sally told me, about our lodger. He has not returned, sir.’
‘No?’ said Quilp, heating some rum in a little saucepan, and watching it to prevent its boiling over. ‘Why not?’
‘Why, sir,’ returned Brass, ‘he—dear me, Mr Quilp, sir—’
‘What’s the matter?’ said the dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of carrying the saucepan to his mouth.
‘You have forgotten the water, sir,’ said Brass. ‘And—excuse me, sir—but it’s burning hot.’
Deigning no other than a practical answer to this remonstrance, Mr Quilp raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off all the spirit it contained, which might have been in quantity about half a pint, and had been but a moment before, when he took it off the fire, bubbling and hissing fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle stimulant, and shaken his fist at the admiral, he bade Mr Brass proceed.
‘But first,’ said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, ‘have a drop yourself—a nice drop—a good, warm, fiery drop.’