Horace.
Not in the least—but I hope you don't mean to abuse it.
Pringle.
I mean to show up the lot of you! I'm going to be the skeleton at your feast.
Horace.
"An agreeable rattle," eh?
Pringle.
It's too sickening! All of 'em grovelling and cringing to you because they're in a blue funk of that old Fakrash! You've managed to get him under control again!
Horace.
[With much earnestness.] Now, my dear fellow—I'll explain everything when we're alone. But, for Heaven's sake, take my advice and keep quiet here!