“I say,” said the school-boy wag of the party, applying an old Joe Miller to the occasion, “why is Mr Riprapton like pens, ink, and paper?”
“Because he is stationary,” vociferated five eager voices, at once, in reply.
The caster-up of sums cast a look at the delinquent, the tottle of the whole of which was, “you sha’n’t be long on the debit side of our account.”
“But what is to be done?” was now the question.
“I am afraid,” said I, “we must dig him up like a dead tree, or an old post.”
“It is, I believe, the only way,” said the tutor, despondingly; “I was relieved once that way before in the bog of Ballynawashy.”
“O, then you are from Ireland after all,” said the lady.
“Only on a visit, madam!” said the baited fixture, with much asperity.
“But really,” said she, “if I may judge from the present occasion, you must have made a long stay.”
“I hope he won’t take cold in his feet,” said a very silly, blubber-lipped boy.