"A plebeian!"
"A codfish—ah——"
"Villains! scoundrels! bla'guards!" shouts the outraged Jipson, rushing at the intoxicated swells, and hitting right and left, upsetting chairs, tables, and lamps.
"Murder!" cries a knocked down guest.
"E-e-e-e-e-e!" scream the ladies.
"Don't! E-e-e-e! don't kill my father!" screams the daughter.
Chairs and hats flew; the negro servants and Dutch fiddlers, only engaged for the occasion, taking no interest in a free fight, and not caring two cents who whipped, laid back and—
"Yaw! ha! ha! De lor'! Yaw! ha! ha!"
Mrs. Jipson fainted; ditto two others of the family; the men folks (!) began to travel; the ladies (!) screamed; called for their hats, shawls, and chaperones,—the most of the latter, however, were non est, or too well "set up," to heed the common state of affairs.
Jipson finally cleared the house. Silence reigned within the walls for a week. In the interim, Mrs. Jipson and the daughters not only got over their hysterics, but ideas of gentility, as practised "above Bleecker street." It took poor Jipson an entire year to recuperate his financial "outs," while it took the whole family quite as long to get over their grand debut as followers of fashion in the great metropolis.