Jipson swore inwardly, and looked like "a sorry man." Smith was at home, in his element; he was head and foot of the party. Himself and friends soon led and ruled the feast. The band struck up; the corks flew, the wine fizzed, the ceilings were spattered, and the walls tattooed with Burgundy, Claret and Champagne!
"To our host!" cries Smith.
"Yes—ah! 'ere's—ah! to our a—our host!" echoes another swell, already insolently "corned."
"Where the—a—where is our worthy host?" says another specimen of "above Bleecker street" genteel society. "I—a say, trot out your host, and let's give the old fellow a toast!"
"Ha! ha! b-wavo! b-wavo!" exclaimed a dozen shot-in-the-neck bloods, spilling their wine over the carpets, one another, and table covers.
"This is intolerable!" gasps poor Jipson, who was in the act of being kept cool by his wife, in the drawing-room.
"Never mind, Jipson——"
"Ah! there's the old fellaw!" cries one of the swells.
"I-ah—say, Mister——"
"Old roostaw, I say——"