It happened one evening that Valentine had driven Mr. Waring into town to be present at a wine and card party. It was late at night, or speaking more accurately, early in the morning, when they were returning home. It was difficult to say which of the two was most excited. Mr. Waring was in his most maudlin mood of familiarity, Valentine in his most insolent humor. Each perceived the intoxication of the other, without being conscious of his own state. Oswald broke out in a bacchanalian song, which he sung all wrong, and by snatches—occasionally, in a sudden fit of maudlin affection, varying the performance by throwing his arm around his servant, and hugging him closely. Valentine bore this once, but, the second time it was repeated, he shook his master's arm off, exclaiming: "I am not one of your companions." But Oswald laughed aloud, rolled himself from side to side, and breaking out into another low song:
"Life is all a wariorum,
And we cares not how it goes!"
"You will frighten the horses presently. Can't you behave yourself with common decency?" exclaimed Valentine, shaking off the hand that had been laid upon his shoulder.
"Let them talk about decorum,
As has characters to lose,"
sang the inebriate, chuckling and slapping the boy upon the back.
"If you do not be quiet, I'll get out of this buggy, and leave you to drive home as you can," said Valentine, impatiently.
This seemed to amuse the other very much; he burst out into a peal of laughter, falling back, and clasping his knees, and rolling with the tipsy enjoyment of the joke. When he had laughed himself into a fit of the hiccoughs, and hiccoughed himself into comparative calmness, he still seemed to enjoy the drollery of the idea, and recommenced laughing and singing by fits, and slapping Valentine upon the back.
"I tell you, if you do not quit this, I will get out!" exclaimed the boy, angrily. "You a gentleman!"
This language, instead of rousing Oswald to anger, seemed to strike him as the drollest of speeches, for he fell back into another peal of laughter; and when he had recovered himself he began, not in displeasure, but in a maudlin, jesting way, and with a very thick utterance, to taunt Valentine:
"Why, you ins'lent f'low, do you know who you're talking to? You're a spoiled negro—that is what you are! Now, don't you know, if I wa'n't the most forgivin' f'low in the world, that I'd have you tied up and whipt for such language?"