"My treat, if you please, boys," says the third, pulling out a handful of small change. "I asked the party in, an' I pay for what licker we drink—be thunder!"
In the midst of their enthusiasm, the clerk observed it was of no importance just then—the bill would be presented when they got through. This was satisfactory, and the party went on finishing their wine, smoking, &c.
"S'pose we have some rale sham-paigne, boys?" says one of the gents, beginning to feel his oats, some!
"Agreed!" says the rest. Two bottles of the best "sham" in "the tavern" were called for, and which the party drank with great gusto.
"Now," says one of them, "let's go to the the-ater, or some other place where there's a show goin' on. Here, you, mister,"—to the servant,—"go fetch in the landlord."
"The landlord, sur?" says Pat, the servant, in some doubts as to the meaning of the phrase.
"Ay, landlord—or that chap that was in here just now; tell him to fetch in the bill. Ah, here you are, old feller; well, what's the damages?" asks the gent, so ambitious of putting the party through, and hauling out a handful of keys, silver and coppers, to do it with.
"Eight bottles of that old flim-flam-di-rip-rap," pronouncing one of those fancy gamboge titles found upon an Astor House catalogue, "ninety-six dollars—"
"What?" gasped the country gent, gathering up his small change, that he had began to sort out on the table.
"And two bottles of 'Shreider,' and cigars—seven dollars," coolly continued the bar-clerk; "one hundred and three dollars."