Jerry. A swell! I’m at fault again.
Tom. A swell, my dear Jerry——
Log. (Speaks without). Just arrived, eh, very well. I’ll go up!
Tom. But stay; here comes my friend Bob Logic; he shall tell you what a swell is—his head contains all the learning—I beg his pardon—all the larks extant; he is a complete walking map of the metropolis—a perfect pocket dictionary of all the flash cant, and slang patter, either of St. James’s or St. Giles’s; only twig him. Welcome, my dear Bob; ten thousand welcomes.
Enter LOGIC.
Log. Thankye, my dear Tom—thankye. Seeing your natty gig and fast trotter at the door, as I passed, I couldn’t avoid popping in to welcome you back to town. You’ve been sadly miss’d among the big ones since you’ve been away. Lots of chaffing about you at Daffy’s.
Tom. I suppose so. You couldn’t have popped in more opportunely! Allow me to introduce to you my companion and cousin, Jeremiah Hawthorn, Esquire, from Somersetshire; Jerry Hawthorn, Doctor Logic, commonly called Bob Logic—Doctor Logic, Jerry Hawthorn. Bob is the most finished man of all the pavé, Jerry, whether for drinking, roving, getting in a row or getting out of one.
Log. Oh, you flatter me! I yield the palm to you in those particulars. To be sure I always was a knowing one.
Tom. You were, Bob.