“I fancy we'd all have booked ourselves for a cradle in Buckingham Palace,” interposed Jekyl, “if the matter were optional.”
“Faith! I don't think so,” broke in Dalton. “Give me back Corrig-O'Neal, as my grandfather Pearce had it, with the whole barony of Kilmurray-O'Mahon, two packs of hounds, and the first cellar in the county, and to the devil I'd fling all the royal residences ever I seen.”
“The sentiment is scarcely a loyal one, sir,” said Haggerstone, “and, as one wearing his Majesty's cloth, I beg to take the liberty of reminding you of it.”
“Maybe it isn't; and what then?” said Dalton, over whose good-natured countenance a passing cloud of displeasure lowered.
“Simply, sir, that it shouldn't be uttered in my presence,” said Haggerstone.
“Phew!” said Dalton, with a long whistle, “is that what you 're at? See, now” here he turned fully round, so as to face the Colonel “see, now, I 'm the dullest fellow in the world at what is called 'taking a thing up;' but make it clear for me let me only see what is pleasing to the company, and it is n't Peter Dalton will balk your fancy.”
“May I venture to remark,” said Jekyl, blandly, “that you are both in error, and however I may (the cold of the season being considered) envy your warmth, it is after all only so much caloric needlessly expended.”
“I was n't choleric at all,” broke in Dalton, mistaking the word, and thus happily, by the hearty laugh his blunder created, bringing the silly altercation to an end.
“Well,” said Haggerstone, “since we are all so perfectly agreed in our sentiments, we could n't do better than dine together, and have a bumper to the King's health.”
“I always dine at two, or half-past,” simpered Jekyl; “besides, I'm on a regimen, and never drink wine.”