Jerry. A tight fit, not much hunting room,—no matter,—there, Tom I’m all fly.
Tom. I knew Dicky would finish him, There’s not a better snyder in England, taking Nugee, Dollman, the Baron, and Rowlands into the bargain against him. That will do—now then Dicky, mizzle!—be scarce!—broom.
Prime. Wouldn’t intrude a moment, gentlemen, good morning—order my carriage, there, John—I’ll just take an ice, and then for the Duke.
[Exit.
Jerry. The Duke and an ice—cursed cool—if these are the London tailors, what must be their customers?
Log. It’s the blunt that does it—blunt makes the man, Jerry.
Jerry. Blunt! I’m at fault again.
Tom. Explain, Bob——
Log. Blunt, my dear boy, is—in short what is it not? It’s every thing now o’days—to be able to flash the screens—sport the rhino—show the needful—post the pony—nap the rent—stump the pewter—tip the brads—and down with the dust, is to be at once good, great, handsome, accomplished, and everything that’s desirable—money, money, is your universal God,—only get into Tip Street, Jerry.
Tom. Well, come let’s make a start of it—where shall we go? No matter. I commit him to your care, Bob—use him well, remember he is not out of pupil’s straits, and musn’t be blown up at point nonplus yet.