"It's going!"
"What?" says my friend.
"The plate; it's going the rounds; just you keep quiet, you'll see a good thing."
The plate, at length, got to the head of the table. It was given to the old gentleman in specs; he looked over the top of his specs very deliberately at the "fodder," then back at the thin, pale, student-looking youth who handed it to him, then up and down the table. A raw-boned, gaunt and hollow-looking disciple caught the eye of the old gent; he must be the man who wanted the "load." His lips quacked as if in the act of—"pass this plate, sir,"—to his next neighbor; he was too far off for us to hear his discourse. Well, the plate came booming along down the opposite side; the tall man declined it and gave it over to his next neighbor, who seemed a little tempted to take hold of the invoice, but just then it occurred to him, probably, that he was keeping somebody (!) out of his grub, so he quickly turned to his neighbor and passed the plate. One or two more moves brought the plate within our range, and there it liked to have stuck, for a fussy old Englishman, in whom politeness did not stick out very prominently, grunted—
"I don't want it, sir."
"Well, but, sir, please pass it," says the last victim, beseechingly holding out the plate.
"Pass it? Here, mister, 's your plate," says Bull, at length reluctantly seizing on the plate, and rushing it on to his next neighbor, who started—
"Not mine, sir."
"Not yours! Who does it belong to? Pass it down to somebody."
Off went the plate again. Several ladies turned up their pretty eyes and noses while the gents passed it by them.