"To go to the divil, zur?" says the servant, in anticipation of the command.
"No, you bog-trotter, go tell the carriage to wait."
The servant went down, and John continued his toilet, muttering—
"Ah, some of their haccommodations, I expect; these American landlords, as they style 'em in these infernal wild woods 'ere, do manage to give a body tolerable sort of haccommodations; ha, but they'll take care to look hout for the dollars. I don't know, tho', these fellers 'ere appear tolerably clever; want me to ride hout, I suppose, and see some of their Yankee lions. Haw! haw! Lions! I wonder what they'd say hif they saw Lun'un, and looked at St. Paul's once!"
Getting through his toilet—and it takes an Englishman as long to fix his stiff cravat and that stiffer and stauncher shirt-collar, and rub his hat, than a Frenchman to rig out tout ensemble, to say nothing of the gallons of water and dozens of towels he uses up in the operation—John found the carriage waiting; he asked no questions, but jumped in.
"Isn't there some others beside yourself going out, sir?" says the driver, supposing he had the right man, or one of them.
"No; drive off—where are you going to drive me?"
"Mount Auburn, sir, the carriage was ordered for."
"Humph! Some of the battle-grounds, I suppose," John grunts to himself, falls into a fit of English doggedness, and the coach drives off.
Thomas Johns made little or no noise or confusion in the house, consequently he was not known to the servants, and very little known to the clerks. John Thomas was another person—he was all fuss and feathers. He kept his bell ringing, and the servants rushing for towels and water, water and towels, boots and beer, beer and boots, the English papers, maps of America, &c., without cessation. He was John Thomas and Thomas Johns, one and indivisible.