Jerry. A hack! If it is the thing we rattled over the stones in to-day, it might more properly be called a bone-setter.
Tom. Or bone-breaker—But if you dislike going in a hack, we’ll get you a mab.
Jerry. A mab! I’m at fault again—never shall get properly broken in.
Tom. A mab is a jingling jarvey!—a cabriolet Jerry—but we must mind our flash doesn’t peep out at Almack’s. ’Tis classic ground there; the rallying spot of all the rank, wealth, and beauty in the metropolis; the very atmosphere of it is—
The Bang-up of the Big Wigs.
Jerry. Rather different to that of Rum-ti-tum and the rats. I should imagine.
Tom. A shade or two!—we must be on our P’s and Q’s there—forget the Phenomenon and the Fancy. If you find me tripping, Jerry, whisper Lethe to bury it in oblivion; and, if necessary, I’ll do the same kind office for you.
Jerry. Ten thousand thanks!