“Do you know, Holy Paul, I think you are the greatest 'hemp' I ever met.”
“No, Kit, don't say so,—don't, my dear and valued friend; these words give me deep pain.”
“I do say it, and I maintain it!”
“What good Company you must have kept through life, then!”
“The worst of any man in England. And yet,” resumed he, after a pause, “I 'm positively ashamed to think that my daughter should be married by the Reverend Paul Classon.”
“A prejudice, my dear and respected friend,—a prejudice quite beneath your enlarged and gifted understanding! Will it much signify to you if he, who one of these days shall say, 'The sentence of this court, Christopher Davis, is transportation beyond the seas,' be a Justice of the Common Pleas or a Baron of the Exchequer? No, no, Kit; it is only your vain, conceited people who fancy that they are not hanged if it was n't Calcraft tied the noose!”
More than once did Davis change color at this speech, whose illustrations were selected with special intention and malice.
“Here 's daybreak already!” cried Grog, throwing open the window, and admitting the pinkish light of an early dawn, and the fresh sharp air of morning.
“It's chilly enough too,” said Classon, shivering, as he emptied the gin into his glass.
“I think you 've had enough already,” said Grog, rudely, as he flung both tumbler and its contents out of the window. “Go, have a wash, and make yourself a little decent-looking; one would imagine, to see you, you had passed your night in the 'lock-up'!”